


Interesting Times

by LadySalamander



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Medieval Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySalamander/pseuds/LadySalamander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And lo, Castiel, Angel of the Lord appeared to Dean and said, "You are tasked with travelling to the Holy City, to lead God's armies to this land and drive back the darkness that lays upon it."<br/>And Dean replied, "Fuck that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Holt

**Author's Note:**

> Art by alecjmarsh <http://alecjmarsh.tumblr.com>  
> Beta'd by greybriana  
> Art link fixed! Thanks to everyone who gave me a heads up!

They said the town of Holt was gone. That a darkness erupted from the earth and swallowed it whole. The people from the nearby Easthead said someone from Holt must have had the foresight to head to the nearby dam, to open the gates and flood the valley. By the time they got there, the river had reclaimed the land, and where once were prosperous farms there was nothing but cold, silent water, the grave of the thirty or so families that had lived there. The men from Easthead found a lone survivor. Charles Shurley, village clerk. 

“I told them,” he muttered the man in the cell with him. “I told them. Its the beginning of the end.”

The man sighed, sagged down on the straw of their cell. It probably hadn't been changed, he figured, since the days of the last king. And smelled like it too. His fingers found a rat bone in among the stalks; he picked it up and began to fiddle, for lack of anything better to do.

“The guys at the inn told me,” he said, “that you though demons were coming to get everyone so you flooded the village to kill them all, but all you got were innocent people.”

Shurley swallowed.

“And then, apparently, you told them you had visions from God telling you this would happen.”

“I did,” said Shurley, quietly. The stranger snorted snorted.

“You were looking for an excuse for murder.”

“It was mercy compared to what they were going through.”

“You could have let them hang you. Instead you told them you were getting visions and now they're going to burn you at the stake.”

“Who are you to judge,” Shurley continued. “You don't know the hell I had to go through.” There was a gasp at the edge of his voice, and it trembled. Shurley's call mate looked up from his distraction into wide, haunted eyes. They looked right at him, steady as a rock, while the rest of Charles Shurley fought against his fear. “I tried to warn them. I tried to get them out. But they didn't listen. Even when I told them it was the word of God they laughed. I heard the screams of the dying. What was I to do, let Easthead fall to the same fate?”

His cell mate frowned.

Charles stood, suddenly, startling Dean Winchester. The guardsman had arrived with the priest. His cell mate could hear it when Shurley swallowed, a wet click against the lump in his throat. He turned to the priest.  


“I take it you are a man of some authority in this town?”

The priest frowned. “I am.”

“Then your word will be good when I say I leave everything I own to this man here?” he indicated the other man stiffly. His cellmate's brow furrowed.

“Hey, we just met! I have nothing to do with this, don't shove your shit on me.”

The priest just shrugged.

“As you say. What he chooses to do with it is his choice.”

Shurley nodded once, curtly, then turned to his cell mate.

“Remember, Dean Winchester. Demons can't drown, and they can't cross running water, but they will find a way. It's up to you now.”

Shurley's cellmate jumped up then, a protest on his lips, but the guard shoved him back down. Charles just smiled in a sad attempt to appear brave.

Dean Winchester put his hands over his ears to block out the screams from the town square.

He had never told his cell mate his name.


	2. Chapter One: the Calling Of Dean Winchester

Dean gave himself time to think about what happened the night before. How he got here. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made, and the more he was sure the injury to his head was a lot worse than he initially thought. 

It had been raining. Hard. Dean cursed it as he ran through the forest, slipping on tree roots and wet leaves. There was a mangled bite on his forearm there, bleeding outrageously. There was something in the woods behind him. Dean hasn't been able to catch sight of it in the darkness and the rain, but it is fast, vicious, and out for blood, and a whole lot of them were running rampant over the small town of Holt.

All around Dean screams and sobs echoed. He was genuinely afraid he was going to die.

Dean pulled himself to his feet with his good arm, scrabbling at the wet bark of a tree. He could hear the snarls of the thing that bit him, hear it crashing through the underbrush, but Dean wasn't the kind of man to lay down and die. He just needed to get to his stash, find a weapon, find his horse god forbid if he lost his Baby there would be no hope. The night had started off so normal, just picking up some supplies, planning to sleep rough, but it had started to rain. The came the screaming, and the smell of smoke, and the cloud of a demon hurtling down the main street. The sky cracked, thunder rolled and people had started dying. People had started dying and Dean was supposed to protect them and he couldn't even see what he was protecting them from. Dean reached the top of a small rise, slipped in the mud and rolled back down to the bottom of the hill. His arm throbbed, his fingers were numb. Dean saw stars and tried to blink to clear his vision, but there was also blood in his eyes. And he could really hear it then, close and heavy, panting like some gigantic dog. He could smell its breath, sulfur and blood and raw meat and it must be close but where, where? Thunder rolled across the sky hot on the heels of the lightning. Dean was aware of teeth, and sulfur, the cold in his arms working its way to the bone. The lightning shone again, growing brighter and brighter, so bright Dean had to close his eyes. Even then, it overwhelms him. Dean may have passed out. He doesn't remember. He just knows that the next time he opened his eyes, he was on the road from Holt to Easthead. It was still raining, and he could hear the deep breath of a large animal nearby. He shot to his feet, but it was just his horse. His Baby, healthy and whole. The pain in his arm and head were gone. The bite on his arm was gone. Maybe it was just a bad dream, maybe he fell asleep by the road and then it began to rain. That had to be it. For once, it was just a nightmare. Dean almost cried with relief. Baby nuzzled him with concern, and he hugged her broad snout in return.

“Come on,” he said. “Lets get out of the rain.” He took her reigns, lead Baby around a bend in the road. Once he caught sight of Holt Dean turned around, climbed on Baby's back, made the ride to Easthead, and proceeded to get very, very drunk.

#### ~*~

#### 

Charles Shurley's personal effects taken from him upon his arrest had consisted of three things; a cloak, a copper ring, and a big, heavy book. 

“I don't think burning him was right,” the said the jailer. “Man was crazy, for sure. But I don't think he was a witch.”

“Warlock,” Dean murmured.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“Hm,” the jailer grunted. “Better to hang them and be done with it. Nice and clean. Then again, you don't get much entertainment around here. And the man admitted his guilt, he was dead anyway.”

Dean thought of the fear in Charles Shurley's words, and tried to imagine him drowning an entire village in cold blood. It was a hard thing to picture. He hawked the ring to pay his fines (disorderly conduct) and the inkeeper for stabling his horse overnight. He was grateful to have a new cloak after hawking his own a few towns back. Leading his black mare by the reigns, Dean backtracked down the road out of Easthead, out into the woods. Down by a muddy little stream there was the hollow remains of a tree that had been split by lightning some years before. From the tree his pulled his pack: his bow, a few arrows, a handful of coins and a fat silver knife worth a small fortune. He sat on the bank of the stream and opened the late Charles Shurley's book. Books were rare in these parts, limited mostly to the town Bible and a few cherished scraps of vellum declaring land ownership. He wondered where the hell Shurley had gotten it. As a clerk how long he would have had to save up to afford it. But the book, as it turned out, was all hand written. Pages and pages of cramped handwriting, no decorations, no woodcuts, nothing. 

Dean's father had been a woodsman.

Dean didn't know how to read.

Well, maybe _didn't_ was an overstatement. He knew which letters were which, what they were supposed to sound like. He could parse out the names on signs, but he didn't have much experience, so to speak, with the written word. He, and many of the people he dealt with, had no need for it. At a glance, though, he could pick out his name, and that of his brother Sam. Which, again, was weird because neither he nor Sam (he assumed) had ever met the guy. He flipped to the beginning of the book, parsing out the first few words. 

“Mary,” he whispered. “Mary Campbell was...” He shut the book quickly, the snap of the cover echoing throughout the forest. No. Goddammit, no. This Charles Shurley guy knew enough already, now his mom, too? Dean didn't have time for this shit. There were rumors of werewolves in Norfolk, and an abbey in Walsham was loosing sleep every night when the bells would not stop ringing. His mare, Baby, bent her neck over his shoulder, sniffing the unfamiliar paper with warm, wet breaths. He patter her cheek affectionately.

“You wanna go see Sammy?” Baby's ears perked up at the familiar sound of Sam's name. She let out a soft whinny, a sound of agreeable compliance even if she didn't really understand what she was agreeing to. Dean carefully stashed his illegal bow and knife where they would not be noticed. Sam was a few days ride west, nosing around in the library at Abbottsford. Dean swung his leg over Baby's back, clicking his tongue and leading her back to the road at a lazy walk, singing as they went.

#### ~*~

Dean slept better than anyone should on the road. Even though they were relatively safe from highwaymen and other unsavory _people_ , but Dean knew better than most what unsavory, inhuman things could waylay a lone man on the road. And yet, after a long day on the road, Baby and Dean passed out like a pair of mismatched logs. The last image Dean saw before closing his eyes were the dying flames of the fire, dancing light that trickled over into his dreams.

“ _Dean_ ,” said the light. Dean's ears perked up but he didn't pay much attention. He was drifting, happy to be somewhere that was not on the road. “ _Dean, please, you must listen to me_.” Dean turned then, to look at the light, but it hurt his eyes. He raised a hand to shield them and turned away.

“Leave me alone, man, I'm sleeping...”

There was a pause, and Dean had the horrible notion that the light was somehow contemplating.

“ _I see_ ,” it said, finally, its voice fading in the distance.

Dean awoke. It was dawn, with two more days to go until Abbottsford. Baby regarded him lazily, munching on the weeds that grew along the road. Dean grimaced, wished he could afford something better for her. There was a gnarly little apple in the bottom of his pack, probably the only food he would get until that evening.

It was a long, lonely day on the road. The countryside around here was mostly patches of wood, fields and the occasional farm. Sheep grazed the hillsides under blue skies, the very picture of pastoral bliss. Dean slumped in the saddle. With nothing to keep him occupied his mind and body drifted, yearning to doze in the warm sun. He thought about what it would be like to buy some sheep, keep his own little flock on a hill somewhere. Shepherds always claimed to be vigilante, but Dean knew they must relax in the sunshine. How could anyone resist? He closed his eyes thinking about lazing in the grass when Baby suddenly stopped, rearing back in fright and nearly throwing her master from his perch. Dean cried out and grabbed the reigns. He was no longer asleep, that was for sure. His heard was pounding.

“Easy girl, easy,” he coaxed. The horse planted all her feet on the ground, but refused to move forward. Dean leaned around her head to see what all the fuss was about. A dead sheep lay in the road, all red blood and purple innards on white wool. Dean looked around. It was a terrible place for a trap. The road didn't even have ditches at this point. 

Dean slid off Baby’s back, patting her neck to help calm her nerves. The sheep didn’t look as if it had been killed by human hands. The belly was ripped and the innards torn and strewn about. A blade wouldn’t leave tears like that in flesh, but a wolf or a bear would have taken the corpse, or at least eaten it, Maybe there was something wrong with it, maybe it was sick. It was a pale hope, Dean knew. Not with what happened in Holt over the past week.

“Here, what’s this then?” said a voice off to his left. Dean jumped, reaching impulsively for a knife that was stored safely in his saddlebag. It was an older man in poor clothes, probably a farmer, probably the shepherd.

“I think some wolves got to your sheep,” said Dean. “I must have … scared them away.”

The older man’s eyes flicking to Dean’s hands and coat, looking for signs of blood. When he didn’t see any he nodded knowingly.

“Sun’s going to set soon.”

“Yeah,” Dean replied.

“You have a place to stay for the night?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “Not unless there’s a cheap one nearby,”

The shepherd nodded again. “Can’t let you stay out here with wolves on the road. Come on, then.”

Wolves are the least of your worries, thought Dean, but he kept his mouth shut. He was grateful for the free hospitality, and more worried about the fate of the farmers than his own if there was a demon out in the fields.

“What do they call you?” asked the shepherd as they walked, Dean leading Baby by the reins. 

“John,” Dean lied, giving a name that was common as dirt.

“John, eh. My boy’s name is John.” His boy and half the others on the continent.

“‘S a nice horse you have,” the shepherd continued.

“Getting on though,” Dean signed, stroking Baby’s mane affectionately. “But she’s a fine girl, just like her momma before her.”

“Oh yeah?”

“We had a horse named Chevy growing up,” said Dean. “Gentlest, most loyal girl in the land. Baby’s her daughter, her spitting image.” This was not a lie. Their father had used Chevy for heavy lifting, for carrying the furs he sold to town, to carry him away on hunts. Damned if any of them knew (or particularly cared) who Baby’s father was. And Dad was away, or passed out dead to the world, Chevy and Baby were companions to Sam and Dean. The Winchester boys didn't have many guarantees in their lives, but they always had the black mares.

The shepherd's house was tiny, built partway into the hillside to protect from the weather. Dean felt terrible when he saw it.

“Do you have a barn?” he asked. “A stable? I would be fine sleeping there.” His eyes landed on a weathered lean to beside the house, presumably where he would be hitching Baby. “Even with the horse is okay. As long as the dogs are around I'll be safe.”

“The dogs'll watch your Baby, don't worry about that. Family sleeps in the loft when it'n be too warm to be down by the fire, so you'll have that to yourself.”

Dean was torn. The man looked poor – an act of kindness like this toward a stranger could get him robbed, or worse. But then again, it didn't look like they had much to steal. If anything, they could be luring _him_...He tied Baby's reigns loose, all the easier to slip away if need be.

Dean's fears were assuaged somewhat when he finally made it inside. By family, he realized, the shepherd had met the whole kit and kaboodle. Wife, son, daughter in law, and a pair of snotty ankle biters that stared at him with big, curious eyes.

“I'm Abraham, by the way,” said Abraham the shepherd. “This is my wife Sara, that's Rebecca, I told you about John, and those are Emma and Issac.” The older of the ankle biters waved upon recognizing her name. “Everyone else this is also John.”

“Couldn't let you sleep out on the road, eh?” said John. He smiled, and he was handsome. Dean liked his curly dark hair. 

“I'm not the first?”

“There was another one a few weeks back,” said Sara. “The wolves have been getting bold.”

“They found the poor guy out by Abbottsford, I heard,” John added. “Rebecca's sister disappeared last week, too.”

Rebecca was chopping potatoes at the kitchen table. She sighed deeply, but said nothing.

Dean made a decision. He wasn't going to sleep that night. There was something out there, and it wasn't a wolf.

#### ~*~

#### 

Dinner was a fine enough affair. The family chatted amiably; local gossip, sheep things. The kids fought over bread until their mother decided they needed to be more quiet in front of their guest. They didn't ask about Holt, and Dean didn't say anything. He didn't want to give them any reason to panic, or worse, suspect him. After the table was cleared, Abraham went outside with his pipe. Dean helped John bring in a few logs and draw water from the well, then went outside to join the older man.

Abraham stood just outside the dim circle of light cast from the windows and stared at the sky. Dean stood next to him, and for a few minutes they just shared the silence. 

“Do you remember,” asked Abraham, “when there were nothing but the stars and the moon in the sky? Are you old enough?”

Dean nodded. “Barely,” he replied. “But yeah.” They watched the glow in the night sky, a web of blues and greens that shimmered like a cloth caught in the breeze. A streak here, a glint there, and then the winds would catch it and it would billow out in a lively, bright blaze. Magic, they both new. Raw magic, run rampant in their world.

“You didn't think it was something that would ever change,” Abraham continued. “The sky was always the sky. Like God, watching over us, like he watched over our fathers, and theirs. They sky doesn't change. It was the same sky everywhere, always. And then it wasn't.”

Dean had been four, when it happened. He remembered the time before, mostly because they were also memories of his mother that he clung so desperately onto. He remembers a million pinpricks of light, and a dark so deep it could swallow you whole. And then the sky was alight, and the shadow it cast was deeper than any seen before. You think the people would have felt it, when the world changed. A great, physical upheaval. A shudder. An awakening. Maybe if anyone had been close to the source, they would have, but Dean had never met anyone who proved to be so. Just one minute everything was normal, and then the sky was alive. Oh, they said, the Northern Lights have never been glimpsed so far south! But the lights persisted. Oh, we must be having some strange weather. But the sky never never cleared. Oh, they said, its a message from God. At the beginning there were a few that said the lights in the sky must be a blessing, that God had gifted the world with a strange new beauty. For a while it felt like it might be true, too, because the magic in the sky was certainly beautiful. But then came the rumors. The dead rose. Elves were sighted at the edge of the forest. Men turned into beasts at the full moon. A priest could heal the sick with just a touch. Dean's mother, on the ceiling, her hair ablaze. Magic brought with it a new order, and for every miracle it seemed there were ten tragedies. It took a while for the feeling to settle in, and that feeling was fear.

“I still can't tear my eyes away,” said Abraham. “I figured we were lucky out here. Loose some sheep. Every now and then someone wanders out alone into the hills and disappears. But if that was all we got, then we could forgo some animals. Stay indoors at night. Then something like Holt happens, and you begin to doubt all over again.”

“Holt was one guy,” Dean reminded him. “They burned him in Easthead.”

Abraham snorted. 

“They also say there were warnings for weeks, that the sky was so bright at night a flower would bloom. Rebeccah was down there, her family saw it.”

“Did they get out before it happened?”

Abraham nodded. “In good time.”

“And it was after they got back that Rebecca's sister went missing?”

Abraham nodded. “Why,” he asked. “Do you think they have something to do with each other?”

“No,” Dean lied. “I was in the area is all. Thought I might have seen her.”

Abraham made a little noise of affirmation, but he offered no more concrete opinion on the matter. They went back inside, and Dean settled in front of the fire, waiting for the family to fall asleep. He pulled the book out of his bag and lay it on his knees, in hopes of catching some of the remaining firelight. 

“When Dean Winchester was four years old,” he read aloud, “three very important things happened. Strange lights appeared in the sky, his brother was born, and in the late months of the year, his mother was murdered.”

Light flickered out in the hills. Heat lightning. Dean had never felt angrier in his life. How dare, how dare a complete stranger know so much about him, about this. This had to be some kind of practical joke. Sam or Bobby wrote down a bunch of shit and then paid a crazy guy in Easthead to give it to Dean. The guy had been following them. Already crazy, thought he was some kind of monster hunter who listened to God. Dean very nearly threw the book into the fire right then and there. Then again, it was a nice book, with heavy parchment pages. He couldn’t picture any of them wasting a book like that.

Above him came the sound of soft snoring. Didn’t waste a minute, those ones. Dean knew what it was like to grab sleep when you could. He packed everything away neatly, slipping the silver knife into his boot. Dean was just at the door, hand outstretched to lift the bar when outside the dogs began to bark. They were going absolutely bananas, snarling and probably snapping at whatever was out there. The family stirred in the loft. Abraham and John were climbing down in silence, used to responding to the alarm of the sheepdogs in the middle of the night.

“I don't think going out is a good idea,” Dean warned. John smiled reassuringly. He was shirtless, a well muscled farm boy, and for a moment Dean would have given a lot to see that smile in a different place. 

“Its just the lightning,” said John. “It spooks them.” The men stomped into their boots, shoving at the door sleepily. Dean trailed after them with his pack. They didn't give any indication that they needed him to come along. Which was good, because Dean needed to stay behind to set his trap. He waited until they had disappeared into the darkness, then grabbed a piece of kindling from the wood pile and got to work. It was hard to tell in the dark, but John Winchester had made certain his boys knew a devil's trap off by heart. Then he hid in the shadows at the side of the house, digging his bow from his pack and stringing it while he waited. And sure enough she came, from around the hillside, a young woman in a stained skirt and apron that must have been Rebecca's lost sister. Lure the men out with the dogs, attack the family while they were out then lay in wait to see the horror on their faces. Dean raised his bow, tracking her until she walked into the devil's trap in front of the door and stopped, realizing what had happened. Dean fired before she had a chance to do anything else, sending an arrow into her calf. She dropped immediately, howling indignantly. Devil's traps made of dirt were shit, so Dean had to make sure he moved fast. He ditched the bow and pulled a rosary from his pocket. He threw himself on the demon, using the rosary like a garrote. Not too tight, but tight enough that the holy beads would bite into her flesh and keep her still long enough for him to recite the exorcism, which was already leaving his lips. Of course, all this had caused enough of a commotion that the door of the house was open, with Rebecca and her mother in law in their sleepwear staring at Dean in shock and disbelief.

“Pheobe!” Rebecca cried. Dean jerked the demon back by the neck in a show of force that he hoped would be enough to deter Rebecca coming any closer and potentially breaking the devil's trap. It is, but instead she began to scream for Abraham and her husband. Dean continued the exorcism, raising his voice above her own. The demon scrambled for release, clawing at Dean's hands, then scraping at his legs. Just as he was finishing the incantation, it found the knife in his boot.

Three things then happened in quick succession. First the demon gathered the strength to raise Dean's knife and slide it, cleanly (Dean made pains to keep it sharp), into Pheobe's throat. As the blood spurted over Dean's hands and onto the ground, John and Abraham, wheezing slightly, arrived on the scene. As Pheobe's body gurgled its last breath, the demon succumbed to the exorcism and exploded from her body, winding its way toward the heavens, nothing but a trail of black smoke, and vanished into the dark.

There wasn't even a pause before Rebecca started screaming. Sara looked furious. So did John. 

“You killed her!” Rebecca screamed. “You cast a spell on her and killed her!”

“That _demon_ ,” Dean replied, pointing off in the direction it has gone, “killed your sister and it was going to kill you.”

“Bullshit,” John growled. 

“You saw it!”

“I saw you casting a spell. If there was a demon, you were probably working with it.”

Dean booked it. He left his bow and snagged his pack from the ground. He didn't even bother untying baby's reigns, just cut them loose and fled at full gallop. It wasn't the first time he had to run and it probably wouldn't be the last. Yeah, running probably just made him look more guilty, but they were out for blood, and even if they did have the sense to find some kind of authority who would they believe, the well established family or the drifter? Better to just cut his losses and run. Maybe he could come back some day. Maybe he could com back and say sorry. He knew, in his heart, that one girl was dead and it meant that six other people were alive, but that didn't make him feel any less guilty.

#### ~*~

#### 

Dean rode into Abbottsford the next morning. He was exhausted and jittery, and so was Baby. No one had passed him on the road the night before, but that didn't mean he was out of the woods yet. He needed to grab Sammy and they needed to go, probably lay low at Bobby's for as long as they could. Sam also currently had all their money. He was sleeping at the inn during the day and stalking the town graveyard at night, waiting for a ghost that harassed mourners by possessing the bodies of the recently deceased. Deana actually wished he'd stuck around to see it, both because it would have been hilarious and because he wouldn't be in the position he was in now. The skies had been bright over Holt, and there was no rest for the wicked. Sam opened the door to Dean's banging, bleary eyed and covered in dirt.

“You get it?” asked Dean. Sam grunted in affirmation. “Good,” said Dean. “Then we gotta go.” Sam groaned. “No complaining buttercup, we got work to do.”

“What did you do?” Sam moaned. Dean sighed.

“Killed a demon out in the boonies not far from here. Family thinks I killed their daughter, wants my head, and I need your help. So we need to move.”

Sam groaned again, but he went to pack his stuff without further complaint. They were on the road out of Abbottsford and on the way to Bobby's in less than half an hour. Baby had complained when Sam tried to climb on her back, so all three of them were walking. They kept a brisk pace. Bobby's cabin wasn't far, but none of them would feel safe until they were off the main road. 

“So whaddya need me for?” asked Sam, slouching along with his hands in his pockets. “What happened in Holt? I heard it was gone.”

Dean nodded. “Right off the map. Some guy knew that there were demons coming, and he opened the dam.”

Sam sucked in his breath. “Jesus. How did you get out?”

Dean shrugged. “I don't remember,” he said. “One minute I was running for my life, the next there was this light and they demons following me were gone. I didn't question it, I just ran. Weird shit happens sometimes.”

“Well,” said Sam, “I'm glad you're alive. When it comes to the how we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But what do I have to do with anything?”

“I met a guy,” said Dean. Sam's eyebrows lifted.

“Not like that, Christ,” Dean looked around, even though they were the only ones on the road. “I got into .. a bit of an altercation in Easthead. And there was another guy in the cell.”

Sam rolled his eyes.

“It's not funny!” Dean snapped, the memory of Charles Shurley twisting uncomfortably in his gut. “It was the guy who broke the dam. He told people God told him to do it, or something. So they had him up for witchcraft. But I think he was the real deal. A real seer.”

“How so?”

“He knew my name. Without me having to tell him. He knew he was going to die, so he left me this book. Sammy, I haven't gotten very far in, I haven't had time, but, I think its about us. I think its a book about us.”  
Sam snorted. “What was this guy's name?”

“Charles Shurley. Chuck Shurley.”

“Pff. I never met him.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Exactly.”

Sam fell silent. They remained that way even after they had turned off the road and onto the forest path that lead to Bobby's cabin. Occasionally one of them would hum, or sing to pass with time, with Baby huffing and snorting along. The familiar companionable silence of a day on the road. 

Sam and Dean reached Bobby's cabin just after noon. Bobby, like their father, was a tracker, trapper, and hunter, albeit with a secret. Maybe twenty years ago there had been an abbey in Abbotsford. Bobby took his vows there after his wife died. Bobby did not like being a monk, but he did like the access he had to the Abbey's library, a rare and ancient collection of lore from a time before their time. It was one of the only collections they knew of that information on demons and other things that went bump in the night that had existed before magic returned to the sky.

It was also hella illegal. There was, as in used to be, an abbey in Abbottsford, until the king's men showed up and demanded the collection on the basis of heresy. It was magic, they said, and magic needed to be hunted down and destroyed. The monks, who had lived peacefully at the abbey for longer than anyone could really be bothered to remember, refused. They began to move the collection, a few books at a time, to a cave half a days walk from the town. In front of the entrance they built a cabin. When the king's men returned to find no books they burned the abbey and anyone who happened to be in it to the ground. Bobby was one of only a handful of survivors, scattered to the wind, who shared with those in need the secrets of their forbidden lore. They left Bobby in charge of the books because he was an annoying old coot quick on the trigger of his crossbow who didn't mind being alone and making sure the rest of the world left it that way.

Sam and Dean loved him to pieces.

They stepped thoughtlessly over the noise trap at the front of the cabin, but banged loudly on the door as they entered. Bobby appeared from the kitchen, crossbow loaded.

“Mother of christ,” he swore. “You two are going to give me a heart attack one of these days, Then who are you gonna mooch off of, hm?”

“Good to see you too,” said Sam, patting Bobby’s shoulder fondly.

“Yeah yeah. Why are you here? I thought you were going down to Holt to track demons.”

“Holt’s gone,” Dean grunted. “Tell you the story after we get some sleep.” Bobby’s cabin was small, but the day was warm so they strung up a hammock and lay out Dean’s bedroll behind the house to sleep in the sunshine. Baby chose to settle herself in the shade, chewing sleepily on the grass. Dean fell asleep to the song of late summer grasshoppers, with the sun behind his eyelids. Eh swam in the warm light, drifting off and away until it became a tiny point, but the farther he got the brighter it grew, until it was almost too bright to look at.

" _Dean_ ," said the light. " _Dean, I am sorry, are you free to speak now?_ "

“‘S been a long day,” Dean murmured. “Sam and I really gotta get some sleep while we can. Got the feeling something bad is going to happen.”

The light let out a long, heavy sigh. " _You are right about that one, at least._ "

#### ~*~

#### 

Bobby woke Sam and Dean in order to help him prepare dinner. The bread was already in the oven, so the brothers cut vegetables and yawned while Bobby divvied up some unidentified salted meat, probably deer. Dean relayed his story while they ate.

“Sam get first crack at the book?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Bobby. “Means you can split me some firewood before it gets dark.”

So he did. Dean chopped wood and drew water and set Baby up for the night, finally coming back inside just as the sun settled down behind the trees. Sam was still planted firmly at the table, now with a candle to help him read. 

“So,” said Dean. “What’s the verdict?”

“You were right,” said Sam. “The book is about us. About Dad. About being hunters. Every secret we thought we had, right here.”

“And no, you know, why?”

Sam flipped to a page early on in the book and read aloud. “One day, two brothers will lead us out of the dark times. The light of our world will no longer be strange, but joyful, the light of God. It will come to be known that God has chosen them for this task, and it falls to I, his prophet, to ensure their story is told.”

“That poor son of a bitch,” Dean reminded him, “was burned in the name of God.”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Sam admitted. “I haven’t gotten to anything that I don’t really know about yet. Except that you slept with the stonemason’s-”

Dean reached over the table and clamped a hand over Sam’s mouth before he could get any further. _Not around Bobby_ , his expression said. _And you know it_. Sam shook his hand off and continued.

“That, and the phrase ‘When they travel to the capitol’ has come up a few times. Only, you know, we’ve never been to the capitol.”

“So?”

“So? I think we should go.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah Sammy, why should we make a trip like that just because some nut says we might do it in the future. I mean, fuck, everyone and their grandmother’s blind dog make the pilgrimage. Doesn’t mean we have to do it now.”

“I think we should,” Sam argued. “There are probably demon’s loose all over the place, and Holt is gone. That’s a lot more than a handful of hunters can handle. We need help.”

“Sam, that is so much bullshit. We waltz in there proclaiming to be hunters and they’ll chop our heads off where we stand.”

“Not as hunters,” said Sam. “As people. As citizens. As, I dunno, the lone survivor from Holt come to beg protection from the Brotherhood?”

Dean made a disgusted noise. “Fuck those assholes.”

“Dean-”

“No,” said Dean. “Sure they might march in here and gank a bunch of monsters, then what? Who's gonna pay them? Who can pay them? No one, that's who, and when no one can, they'll levy taxes. Which the people won't be able to pay. So by the end of the day, they're starving and homeless and dead anyway.”

“Dean, attacking a town with those numbers is essentially an act of war. Word will get there eventually.”

“No,” Dean repeated. “I said it all ready-”

The air shattered. 

One second they were talking, and the next a high pitched scream rose to a crescendo, echoed through the forest then disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. It left their ears ringing, birds aflutter, Baby screaming and kicking the walls of her pen, and most importantly every fragile object in Bobby's cabin had been shattered, from the clay jars in the kitchen to the bottle of reserve he had been saving. Man was almost lucky he didn't have glass windows. Sam doubled over, his hands over his ears. Bobby cam bounding into the kitchen in a similar state, shouting obscenities that Dean couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. When he realized the boys were just as bad off, Bobby stumbled outside to see what could be seen, but Dean had the feeling all he would find were frightened animals. Whatever it had been had come and gone with the an instantaneous ferocity. For his part, Dean just sat there, stunned. He should be afraid, he knew, but when all was said and done, Dean was left with the impression that he had just heard a familiar voice.

#### ~*~

The three men cleaned up what could be cleaned up in the dark, and slept the night in shifts, taking watch in case anything else happened. But nothing did. Dean's dreams were silent that night. Bobby took last watch, meaning he was already up to make breakfast when the sun rose. By silent agreement Bobby began his research, trying to find out what had attacked them last night, Sam continued reading the book Dean had brought him, and Dean went out into the woods to check the trap lines and general traps that kept the cabin safe from the outside world. Sam hadn't brought up going to the capitol again, sensing that Dean was still in a sour mood about the whole thing. It had been over twenty years since the sky opened up and the response from the capitol had been to create a large standing army specifically trained for fighting werewolves and demons and digging up ghosts and have them sit there and look pretty. Oh sure, you could go petition them, but they were always busy on some battlefront or another. You could hire an agent, if you could also afford not to eat for two years. If you weren't anywhere near where they happened to be, then you happened to suffer. The best part, the red hot linchpin of Dean's ire, was the fact that they had outlawed hunting. Or, as the law put it, “Unsanctioned, premeditated and systematic pursuit of supernatural forces.” It was a catch all, Sam had explained. Yeah it outlawed witchcraft and demon pacts, but depending on the enforcer (ie. all of them) it also included studying magic of any kind. Which most hunters had to do if they were to, you know, going to survive. It was the worst kind of law, a money grab disguised as something to protect the people. It made them dependent, afraid of accusation if they sought to defend themselves or harbored someone, like Sam or Dean, who knew how. And yet...

Demons can't drown and they can't cross running water, but they will find a way.

The hunters had been operating in the shadows for years. Dean saw no reason they couldn't organize in the same way. Besides, no one in the capitol would give a couple of country bums the time of day unless they had some kind of proof, and they didn't have the time to run around looking. 

Luckily, proof was out looking for him.

Dean was traipsing back to Bobby's cabin, a rabbit strung over his shoulder. Dean didn't like rabbit meat, but he was looking forward to the mittens it would make. He was almost to the clearing when the light appeared above the trees. Not a light, the light. The one he had been seeing in his dreams. Dean stopped abruptly, dropping the rabbit corpse and drawing his knife. He tried to look, tried to see what was going on but the light was too bright, if he looked too long his eyes burned. He held up a hand and kept his ground, trying to follow as the light swept to the ground. The wind kicked up, and there was a beat of wings like the arrival of a great bird. Dean weighed his options. Out alone in the woods he didn't stand much of a chance against this monster. So he booked it.

“Sam!” he hollered. “Bobby! Get the crossbow!” He careened into the clearing, expecting some winged beast hot on his heels. To his horror it was already there; the light hovered above the clearing, already descending. Bobby rushed out of the cabin, crossbow at the ready, and fired without bothering with a second look. The bolt struck home. In an instant the light dropped, and disappeared. In its place was a dark haired man decked to the nines in fine plate mail, and looking furious. From his back spread six great white wings. And a crossbow bolt.

“Fuck me,” Bobby groaned in dismay. The man ignored him. Instead he looked to Dean and spoke.

“Dean Winchester,” he said. “Be on your knees, for you are witnessing the glory of God.”

Dean brought his knife out in front of him. The man flicked his hand and the blade jerked out of Dean's hand and buried itself in a nearby tree.

“So be it then. Four times have I tried to reach you with this most important message, and four times have you turned your back to me. I have had no choice but to intervene upon the mortal realm so that you shall receive your revelation.”

“Tch,” Dean snarled. “You're the one that attacked us, aren't you. And now you're parading around like you're an angel-” 

“I AM AN ANGEL OF THE LORD,” the angel interjected, his voice booming across the forest. “I AM CASTIEL, AND YOU WILL LISTEN TO YOUR CALLING. DEAN WINCHESTER, YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO WHAT YOUR BROTHER HAS TO SAY.”

Standing by the cabin, Dean saw Sam frown and mouth, What?

“YOU ARE TASKED WITH TRAVELLING TO THE HOLY CITY, TO LEAD GOD'S ARMIES TO THIS LAND AND DRIVE BACK THE DARKNESS THAT LAYS UPON IT.”

Dean laughed. It was funny, it really was. A horribly ill informed prank. A cosmic joke. This idiot was trying to find someone to run his crazy errand and he's just messed with the wrong guy.

“God's Armies!” Dean hooted. “Yeah right! Fuck those assholes!”


	3. Chapter Two: An Angel on His Shoulder

Castiel was, to say the least, shocked. 

“I don't think you heard me, Dean. I am bringing you your destiny.”

“Look,” Dean drawled. “I don't know what you are, or what you want. But if you want to fight lets have at it. I don't have time for this bullcrap.” Dean looked the angel right in the eyes. They were blue, inhumanly so, and at the moment they were dark and stormy. Growing darker, actually, the more Dean held his ground. Castiel locked Dean into the blue pit of his eyes, and around them the wind began to rise and the sky darkened. The first rumble of thunder broke Dean's concentration, and he looked up to see that a sunny day had become cloudy and dark in the span of seconds. Lightning flashed above them, and the wind kicked up to an almost impossible crescendo. And Castiel stood in the middle, calm as you please. Dean glanced over to Sam and Bobby, looking for help, but as soon as his eyes left Castiel a bolt of lightning appeared from the clouds to strike the earth between them, the force knocking Dean backwards off his feet. Castiel took a pair of steps toward him, through the smoke rising from the grass.

“Do you still deny that I bear the word of God, Dean Winchester?”

“No,” Dean panted.

“Then do you accept your mission from Him?”

“Fuck off,” Dean reiterated. Castiel looked like he was going to smite him right then and there and be done with it. But the storm in his eyes settled, and so did the one in the sky.

“So be it,” he said. “But I am not leaving until you do.”

~*~

The angel – Castiel – was still there come dinner time.

“He still hanging around?” asked Dean. Sam leaned over so he could see out the window.

“Yeah,” he answered. 

“What's he doing?”

“Standing.”

“Standing?”

“Yeah.”

“Standing and what?”

“Just standing. Looking around. Oh!”

“What?”

“He sat down.”

“Sat down.”

“On the chopping block.”

“Settlin' in for the long haul,” Bobby sighed. “Any chance you could get him to chop some wood?”

“Hey!” Sam called. “And chance you could chop some wood?”

Castiel waved his hand irritably. A log rose into the air. Then it ripped in two and dropped back to the ground.

“He says no,” said Sam.

It was bad enough trying to sleep that night knowing there was something so powerful and pissed off at you hanging around outside. Although Dean got the feeling that Castiel was at the very least under orders to do them no harm, at best unwilling to use force rather than just show it off. The worst came at the crack of dawn when Dean awoke with a start and then a cry to Castiel looming above the bed.

“Time is of the essence, Dean,” he said.

Dean pulled his blanket back over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

“I can tell you are awake,” said Castiel. Dean peeked out at him.

“They say angels watch over people when they sleep,” he said. “If this his how they do it then I don't think I'm ever going to sleep again.”

Castiel frowned. “How else would we do it?”

It was the logic Castiel pretty much applied to everything. It would have been funny if it wasn't for the sturm und drang he had shown the day before. He glowered while the three of them cooked, while they ate, and he would have done it while Dean was pissing as well if Dean hadn't told him it was indecent.

“If its so important, why don't you just – call in a miracle and make us go?” Dean asked.

“And what would you do once you got there?” Castiel countered. “Run away? Make a fuss? There is a greater good here, Dean, and until you realize that-”

Dean slammed his fist on the table, cutting Castiel off. “I know damn well of the greater good, Castiel!”

“You would presume to be more wise than an angel?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Castiel cut him off with a raised finger. He looked away, toward the road.

“A man approaches,” he said. “He rides a cart pulled by an old mule. His skin is dark, her mane is light.”

“Rufus,” Dean supplied.

Rufus was an old friend of Bobby's, from before the monastery burned, Dean always reckoned. He owned an aging mule and a cart full of junk he used as an excuse to pass as a tinker, which he used as an excuse to ride from town to town and cut the heads off vampires. Neither of them looked like they were in particularly good shape. Both the mule and the cart sported gashes in their flank. Rufus favoured his left arm and stank of being on the road for too long. Sam took pity and began to heat water for washing while Rufus regaled them with his encounter with a werewolf.

“Biggest one I ever saw,” he swore. “I don't think its on its own, either. Ellen sent word of more up by Holdrege. Glad I stopped by, maybe you boys can come with?”

Dean looked to Sam and Sam shrugged.

“Up to you.”

“I’m probably wanted for murder.”

“In Abbottsford, though. I don’t think anyone in Holdrege would look twice at us.”

“We're going to have to take Baby, though. Cause we can’t take the mule, look at her.” He waved a hand at Rufus’ cart. Castiel was standing next to the mule, whom he’d unhitched, with his hands over her wounds. They were glowing softly.

“Hey!” Rufus cried. “What are you doing to my mule! What’s he doing to my mule?” he asked. Castiel looked over his shoulder, then dropped his hands so they could see. The wound in the mule's flank was gone, healed up as if it had never been there in the first place. 

“What about you?” Sam called.

“What about me?”

“I meant, what about healing yourself? You still have a crossbow bolt in you.”

Castiel frowned and the crossbow bolt appeared in his hand. Neither he nor his armour appeared to have been damaged.

“Ah yes,” he said, handing it back to Bobby. “That could have become an inconvenience, thank you.” He turned to Rufus. “You should take better care of your companion. She's growing too old for such strenuous activity.”

Rufus turned to Bobby. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

~*~

Castiel insisted on coming with them to Holdrege. It wasn't like anything was going to stop him, anyway. Rufus had been wary at first, thinking he was some kind of warlock or demon. He asked Castiel to prove he was what he said he was, and Castiel followed gamely with a few requests, fixing the broken items in Bobby's house (though they later found the reserve had been turned into water. Wine into water was a miracle, Sam argued, if a bit of a let down), and healing Bobby's bum knee. He turned to Dean triumphantly after this had been done, perhaps expecting him to fall to his knees and vow to do whatever God instructed, but Dean just shrugged and said,

“Well, I never met a demon that healed anyone before.”

Plus, Castiel seemed completely okay with walking rather than riding in the cart, despite wearing all that heavy armour. He chastised the men for not following suit, citing the age of the mule (even though she had Baby's help) compared to the young legs of Sam and Dean. After a while Sam crawled off guiltily, and Dean soon followed.

“Walking in all that armour really doesn't bother you?” he asked. Castiel looked at him.

“Should it?”

“Well it weighs a tonne and probably roasts you in this weather.”

Castiel looked thoughtful.

“The temperature of my body does appear to be above optimal,” he said. “And weight is not an issue for a heavenly being.”

“In the old stories,” said Sam, “angels don't need to eat or sleep. They don't feel pain.”

“All this is true,” said Castiel. “We are above Earthly concerns.”

“Shame,” Dean remarked.

“Though now that you mention it,” said Castiel. “I am curious to know what else they say about us in the old stories.”

Sam looked thoughtful. Dean grinned.

“Rufus!” he hollered. “Tell us young folks a story about angels, pretty please?”

Rufus grumbled, but there was a smile hiding in it. It had been a long time since he traveled with company and told stories for no better reason then to pass the time.

“All right, all right,” he agreed.

_Joan was a peasant girl. Her family owned no land. Their wealth belonged to their lord. Joan herself was not beautiful, but she was strong, clever, and held in her heart a love of God that could out shine the sun. She did not hide her love; she lived by His word, and tried to show her devotion in all things she did. God saw Joan, and was pleased. But despite Joan's good life, she was worried, and unsettled. The country was at war. Young men were dying and young women kidnapped into slavery by those who sought to occupy the land. They were backed by dark magics. Their soldiers had the strength of ten men, and they could send a blight upon the crops with their mere presence. There was nothing a girl with no land could do but watch those around her suffer._

_God saw Joan, and he heard her prayers for her people. So it was to her that he chose to send his angels. One morning, while she was praying in her father's garden, a light appeared above the wall and spoke to her. Even though Joan had never heard the voice before, she knew who spoke to her, for thus was the power of the Lord, and the Archangel Micheal who bore his message._

_“God has heard you,” said Micheal. “And so we will grant you the power you need to drive the invaders from this land.”_

_“And what is this power?” Joan asked. As his answer, Micheal kissed her forehead._

(“Right here,” said Rufus, tapping his brow with a finger.)

_“I have given you the power of one of our own,” said Micheal. “God knows you will use it well.”_

_Joan gathered her friends and her elders, and she told them of the message and the gift the Archangel Micheal had given her. Her elders had doubts, but her companions stood by her side and agreed to accompany her to the Holy City. It was a long journey through a land ravaged by war, but they did not loose hope, for they knew they had the power of God on their side._

_After their fifth night on the road, Joan no longer slept. But she confronted her enemies with the same vigor she had always had. Her companions accepted this, as it is well known angels do not sleep as mortal men do.  
At the end of a few weeks Joan no longer ate. She tried, she felt she must, after all, but all food had become tasteless. Not even sweets could light up her tongue as they once had. So she simply did not eat. And this too did not affect her. Her companions accepted this, reckoning mortal food was no good for angels._

_They fought many trials, everyone knows this. They convinced the king that they had the power of God, so he gave them his armies to lead in battle. And through it all, Joan was pious. Joan was just. Joan was faithful. But her love, which had once burned like a fire igniting all those it touched, had gone cold. Sure it still shone brighter than the sun, a beacon in the dark, hope on the battlefield, magnificent to behold. But the light was like that of the moon or stars; distant and cold. There are even some that say her body was the same, that her skin was cold as ice. That she no longer smiled. But they bit their tongues, all of them, even the companions she left home with, because they were winning. Because under Joan's light, the invaders and their dark magic were being driven off._

_Then one day, Joan was captured. You think she would have despaired, tied up in an enemy camp. Beaten. It was a miracle in of itself they didn't kill her. Or maybe they couldn't. Maybe they tried. They certainly couldn't starve her. Maybe they stuck her with swords and beat in her skull and tied her limbs to their horses but she still didn't die, because Joan had been given the power of the angels. So they decided to burn her. Even an angel, they figured, couldn't survive having their ashes scattered to the wind._

_The night before she was to meet her fate, Joan prayed once again to God and the angel Micheal. Micheal came to her for a second and last time, to give her his second and last gift._

_“You are ready to join us,” Micheal told her. Or he must have, for only the two of them would ever know. What we do know is that Joan ascended the pyre with certainty, without fear. And as the flames were lit, Micheal himself appeared before the people and cast a spell upon the fire. He cast a spell so that the flames burned so hot an bright that no one, especially those who had tangled themselves in dark magic, could bear to look upon them. Yet not once did Joan scream, or let out a cry. Micheal burned her mortal body with holy fire and lifted her soul to heaven as one of the host, so that her light_ (Rufus gestured to the heavens) _could shine down on us forever more._

“I mean,” said Rufus, “it's probably all a load of bullcrap. No one wants to see a girl get burned at the stake like that.”

“Joan was real,” Castiel said gruffly. He was staring at the road a head of them, his face unreadable. “Micheal did set her on the path toward her destiny. I remember the time well.”

“Did she become an angel?” Sam asked. Castiel nodded mutely. Sam took a few more steps down the road, turning the story over in his mind.

“I heard a version once where she had a lover,” he said eventually.

“Yeah but wasn't she all, chaste and pious and all that?” asked Dean.

“They were married,” said Castiel, to everyone's surprise. “In secret. But they were.”

Sam looked to Castiel, open curiosity on his face. “Huh,” he said, but Castiel wasn't paying attention.

“Why you looking at him like that?” said Dean, sidling over and lowering his voice.

“Well,” Sam replied, “they also say angels only have love for God. But I guess that's not true, is it?”

“Alright!” Rufus declared, a stretching his arms and back. “Your turn Dean -o You asked for it.”

So Dean told a dirty story about beautiful elven healer and his lusty human companions, and Sam shared a tale about a man who was tricked by a djinn. Finally, all eyes turned to Castiel. Castiel looked back, his eyes darting from man to man uncertainly.

“Yes?” he asked cautiously.

“Your turn man,” said Dean matter of factly.

“Wont we … be arriving soon?” Castiel hazarded. Rufus snorted.

“Not for at least another day, brother.”

“Right.” Castiel nodded once. He fixed his eyes somewhere on the horizon. He looked nervous Dean could have sworn he was blushing.

“I shall share with you then a cautionary tale, about the wrath of the Archangel Gabriel.”

~*~

By the time the story was over, the sun was beginning to set and they had decided to pull over for the night. The three men were more or less silent, their eyes wide as dinner plates.

“So is he still there?” said Sam. “Trapped, I mean? Living the same day over and over? Forever?”

“I assume so,” Castiel answered “If Gabriel let him live that long. It was many centuries ago.”

Sam shuddered. “That sounds … particularly awful,” he decided. His eyes flicked to Dean. “That's not a … common thing angels do, is it?”

Castiel shook his head. “The situation was singularly personal and egregious,” he said. “Most angels would just remove the problem. For the sake of efficiency. We are not … known for our negotiation.”

The last bit was perhaps unnecessary. It was said to make a point. Dean ignored it. Castiel, not needing to sleep, agreed to take watch for the night. Dean drifted off knowing the angel would be looming over him again come sunrise.

Castiel instead woke him a few hours after midnight. He had a hand clamped over Dean's mother, and a finger pressed against his lips, urging him to be quiet.

“Something approaches,” he whispered.

_Something good or bad?_ Thought Dean.

“Something bad,” said Castiel, not missing a beat. “I shall wake the others.” He roused Sam and Rufus in the same manner as he had Dean, while Dean sketched a devil's trap, a wide one, around the fire.

“Ah ah ah,” said a young voice from the darkness. “Didn't think I would fall for that twice, did you?”

Dean froze. He knew that voice. He knew, but he didn't want to believe it. He wanted them to be safe. They were safe now. A figure stepped off the road into the waning light of the fire, and Dean's heart sank into his gut. It was one of the ankle biters. The older of Abraham's grandchildren. Emma. She had blonde hair and eyes black as pitch. Dean's heart hammered. Castiel moved between them. There was a sword in his hand, long and fine. Dean hadn't seen where it came from.

“Leave the child,” he demanded. “Let her go and face me on even ground.”

The demon cackled with the high, shrill laugh of a girl. “Or what?” she demanded. “You don't really care about the kid. I'll fight you. Look, I even have a little knife of my own.” She reached over her shoulder, grasping at something at her back. Sam and Dean heard the wet ripping of a blade leaving flesh, and her hand reappeared with a good sized kitchen knife that Dean had last seen chopping potatoes in a shepherd's house south of Abbottsford. It was dark and wet with blood.

“His own little girl,” the demon cooed. “Johnny put a knife in his little girl's back, and he still couldn't save them!”

Castiel launched himself at the demon. Dean didn't even see him move, he just blinked and Castiel was right up in front of her. But still, he heard steel ring out on steel. They traded blows, dancing back and forth on the edge of the fire. This demon was quick, but it looked like Castiel had her out matched in brute strength.

“Should have listened to your angel earlier Dean!” the demon goaded. “There's a family that might still be alive.” She punctuated her words with a show of force, shoving Castiel back with all her might. He hit the ground hard and dropped his sword. The demon grinned, but it was short lived. Castiel gave up his pretensions of a fair fight. He just lifted his hand and threw her back like she had thrown him, and with considerably less effort. Castiel rose tidily to his feet, reaching for his sword. But it was gone. It was already in Dean's hands. Dean was already on the move, charging while the demon was occupied on her back, when she couldn't see him coming. He stuck her with the angel's sword. It was comical, almost, the size of the sword compared to the tiny child through which it was stuck. The demon's eyes went wide with shock (at seeing Dean perhaps, rather than Castiel) before their infernal light flickered and died forever.

Dean didn't hear Castiel come up behind him. He was panting, drawing great lungfuls of air to guide him through the shock. Dean had never killed a child before, even one possessed by a demon. Castiel withdrew Dean's shaking hands from his sword. He pulled it from the demon and it disappeared, returned to wherever he had drawn it from in the first place. He tried to place a hand on Dean's shoulder, but Dean shrugged him off. Dean tried to speak, and found his voice was thick with tears.

“I'm going to go bury the body,” he declared. “It's too dry for a bonfire.” Rufus nodded sagely. Sam offered to help, but Dean refused. Dean gently picked up the little girl, and disappeared into the woods.

~*~

It was Castiel who came for him, as the forest turned gray and first light showed on the horizon.

“Her aunt was possessed,” Dean said, without being prompted. “I tried to save her, but it didn't work. The demon killed her and got away. It must have come back.”

Castiel put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and this time Dean let it stay.

“You did the right thing,” said Castiel.

“I ran away,” said Dean. “I should have stuck around but I was afraid they would call me a witch and burn me.”

“Dean,” said Castiel. “Look at me.” He took Dean's face in his hands, tilting his head so Dean had no choice but to meet the angel in the eye. His eyes were blue, like the sky on a summer's day. His gaze was calm, and solid. Dean let himself sink into it, and for the first time in hours he felt his heartbeat slow.

“I am an angel of the lord,” said Castiel. “And I am telling you that you did the right thing. You are a good man, Dean Winchester. You can't fight this war on your own.”

Damn, Dean realized, was Castiel ever good looking. All blue eyes and pale skin and dark wavy hair. His hands were smooth and cool, a calming anchor for Dean's tired, heated mind.

“I should be the one apologizing,” said Castiel, “for letting that vile thing speak and not dealing with it sooner.”

Dean nodded, because he didn't know exactly how to respond. “Thanks,” he said finally. Castiel let his hands slide to Dean's shoulders, and he allowed Dean a small smile before stepping away. His gaze landed on the little mound of dirt that was Emma's grave. Dean had carved her name into a branch and stuck it into the ground, but there was not much else he could do. Castiel looked around, his gaze finally settling on a nearby wild rose. He broke a green sprig off the bush, and pushed it into the soil of the grave. Then he leaned over and breathed on it, even so gently, and when he stood Dean saw the beginnings of a bush had sprouted and taken root. It was so much more fitting, more beautiful, then anything he could have done.

They made it to Holdrege by nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always think I should learn to program, and then I try and post something with HTML tags.


	4. Chapter Three: At the Roadhouse

Holdrege was a poky little town, not unlike most of the places Sam and Dean traveled. It had two advantages over most of these places, however. The local priest was an aging drunk who didn't give a shit about his bosses, and the Roadhouse.

The Roadhouse in was a resting place and watering hole for hunters all over the countryside, run by one time hunter Ellen Harvelle and her daughter, Joanna. When people needed to hide and stock up on ammo they came to Bobby's. When they needed to take a break, trade news and a sympathetic ear, they came to the Roadhouse. When Sam, Dean, Castiel and Rufus rolled in the place was already busy with the local evening crowed, working men and women with rough hands and tired eyes. Joanna spotted them at the door and waved them to a table near the bar with a smile. They all sat gratefully with the exception of Castiel, who eyed the crowd with open curiosity. His wings had disappeared somewhere near the edges of town, “So as not to create a fuss,” he claimed. But people were murmuring at staring at the stranger in fine plate armour who had suddenly appeared in their midst. 

“Dean,” he said, lowly.

“Sit down,” said Dean. “You look like a rich ass Brotherhood knight. Holdredge isn't big on those types.”

Castiel sat, stiffly, his hands resting on his knees. Joanna showed up without being prompted, bearing four bowls of beef barley stew.

“Long time no see!” she greeted them, grinning. “Who's your friend?”

“This is Cas,” said Dean. “Cas, this is Joanna-Beth.” Joanna-Beth glowered and Dean grinned. “Her mom owns this joint, so be nice.”

Castiel nodded. “Hello Joanna-Beth. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Aw,” said Jo. “It's just some stew.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Are you a hunter too?”

Cas looked to Dean, who replied with a slight nod.

“Yes,” said Castiel.

“You have some, ah, nice armour for a hunter.”

Castiel looked down at himself. “It was, ah, given to me by my father.”

Joanna put her hand on her hip. “You running around the woods corrupting this rich little lordling, Dean?”

Dean grinned. “You betcha,” he replied. “Cas' family lives on top of the tallest hill. His Daddy sent him to go to the Holy City and become a knight, but he wanted so badly to become a monster hunter like the ones he heard about in fairy tales that he came with us instead.”

Castiel glowered. Jo rolled her eyes.

“Well, I don't know if there's any truth to that, but if you're with Dean, then you're welcome here. Mom'll get the story out of you eventually. Anyway, you boys are probably here for the wolves, right? You want a beer before you head out?”

Sam, Dean and Rufus offered a round of agreements. Castiel declined, but accepted a cup of water after a look from Dean told him it would be weird not to be drinking anything.

Ellen brought their drinks over, and the men, even Rufus, stood one by one to give her a hug.

“Too long, too long!” she crowed happily. “You boys have to do a better job of sending word, or you know, stopping by. Lord, Sam, I swear you get taller every time I see you.”

“Nah,” said Sam, “you just get shorter.”

Ellen swatted him playfully. “Show your elders some respect! And who is this?” she asked, turning to Castiel.

“Castiel,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Thank you for having us in such a fine establishment.”

“My my,” said Ellen. “You really did score yourself a fancy one.”

Castiel put on a smile. “I am here on my own volition, as much as Dean seems to think otherwise.”

Sam guffawed, mostly due to Dean's obvious displeasure with Cas' comment.

“Anyway,” said Ellen. She sat herself and the men followed suit. “Jo said you're here about our little wolf problem.” They all, barring Castiel, of course, tucked into their stew as she spoke. “We're not actually a hundred percent sure its werewolves yet,” she began. “All we know is David's son David,” (Cas made a face) “was bitten by some kind of dog and then disappeared. A few sheep went missing around last full moon, but It could be the animal was just touched and David ran into the woods with a rabid fever. If you're going to go look tonight, you should start around the Davidson farm.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, shoveling the last of his stew into his mouth. “Sounds good.”

“It does not,” said Castiel stiffly. “Dean did not sleep last night. You should not go out chasing werewolves in your current condition.”

“The full moon isn't until tomorrow,” Dean argued. “If we find him before then-”

“The what?” said Castiel. “The boy has already been bitten.”

“And what if he's sick?” Dean argued. “Sam and I are still some of the best trackers around, we can find a sick boy in the woods.”

“Castiel's right,” said Ellen. “You won't do yourselves any good wandering around half asleep in the dark.”

Dean glared daggers at Castiel.

“I'm with Ellen,” said Sam.

“I'm old and need my beauty sleep,” said Rufus, stretching his arms over his head.

Ellen look between the men. “Did you run into trouble on the road.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, standing. “Yeah we fucking did.” He downed the rest of his beer, then stomped out of the common room. Castiel got up to follow almost immediately.

“So,” said Ellen, watching them go.

“Ask you no questions and I shall tell you no lies,” Sam replied.

“Right,” said Ellen. “So tell me about this trouble you met on the road.”

~*~

Castiel caught Dean up in his room, washing his face from clear water in a large wooden bowl He had expected him to be gearing up, ready to sneak out a window when the others weren't paying attention. But he's already stripped off his hunter's leathers and his shirt, which were lying in a heap on the bed. Cas froze for a moment, confronted by the sight of Dean's naked chest. The human body shouldn't have been so shocking to him but, Lord above, that was a particularly fine specimen.

Cas was jolted out of his unintentional reverie by the sound of Dean saying his name.

“Cas? Cas, you all right?”

“Yes,” said Castiel quickly. “I am fine. I was going to tell you I will search for the boy tonight. On the condition that you get some rest.” Dean, even though he was already half ready for bed, decided that what this situation needed was a stare down. He looked into Castiel's ethereal blue gaze, and found, under all that holy defiance, a spark of concern.

“Alright,” Dean relented. “Stay safe.”

~*~

Dean woke late the next morning. This was not unusual for him. He enjoyed the familiar feeling of the Roadhouse's surprisingly soft beds. Sam was most likely already up and at em – he couldn't hear his sasquatch snoring coming from the other bed. Alone time, now that was a treat. Dean considered his options while enjoying the morning warmth of the sheets. To masturbate or not to masturbate? Jerk off, spank the monkey, badger the witness … yeah, he guessed he was a little horny. Just a little. He needed help, though. A light touch and a little fantasy. There was the read-headed bartender from Holt, but that was a sour memory. Man, there hadn't been any in a while, had there? Dean really needed to stop skulking around and get out more. He'd only ever really met one new person in the past while. An image of dark hair and blue eyes swam to the surface of Dean's conscious. And angel having sex, yeah right. Probably totally reserved.

_Or totally pent up_ , said the traitorous part of his mind. _The guy never sleeps, I bet he has the stamina of a fucking horse...._

Dean groaned.

_Bet he's fucking ripped, too. I mean, think of the statues they had in the capitol..._

Okay, so, he definitely didn't need any more help. But now the though of knocking one off made his feel kinda dirty, too. A little desperate if he had to resort to thinking about the man that probably had the biggest stick up his ass from here to kingdom come...

_I wonder what that would sound like? I mean, have you heard the guy's voice? He already sounds half wrecked. I can just hear it. Dean, please, Dean …_

“Dean?”

He could almost hear it...

“Dean?” said Castiel again.

Shit.

Dean groaned, for real this time. He rolled over and finally opened his eyes. Castiel was standing next to the door. There was no indication he had just come in. Had probably been sitting in the chair since he got back last night, only to rouse himself the second Dean showed any sign of life. Dean sighed, inclined to ask for a few minutes of privacy, but Castiel would just ask why, and Dean wasn't going to have that conversation today.

“What's the word, Cas?”

“It is a shortened version of my name, why do you ask?”

Nice. “I meant,” Dean sighed, “how did it go last night?” Now wouldn't that be a fun question in a different context, and why the hell was Dean still on this train of thought? He looked up from his pillow into a pair of slightly confused blue eyes.

Oh yeah.

“Ah,” said Castiel. “Yes. I found evidence of the werewolves, torn clothing and blood. But I was unable to locate their den.”

“You sound worried,” said Dean, pushing himself off the bed. “Its no big deal. They'll be out tonight anyway, we can set a trap.”

“Dean,” said Castiel. “I am an angel. I have abilities humans do not, and rest assured, I can find a rancid wolf's den in the woods. I searched hours using the abilities God gave me, and I could find no den within fifty miles. It's protected, Dean. Warded by something as least as strong as I.”

Ah, and the morning had started out so promising, too.

“Well,” said Dean, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Why don't we talk about it over breakfast?”

“You missed that opportunity,” said Castiel. “It is nearly noon.”

Dean smiled. “Brunch then!”

~*~

Ellen and Sam gave Dean disapproving looks as he sauntered into the common room, late and with sleep tousled hair. But Dean knew if either of them were really angry they would have woken him up, and Ellen definitely would not have put some bacon aside.

“So,” said Dean, through a mouthful of delicious, blasphemous meat, “did Cas fill you in?”

They nodded.

“You down for setting a trap, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “Rufus went to go buy some supplies. And you need to find a new bow as soon as you can. For now, we'll probably have to bait a pit and line the spikes with the last of the silver nitrate. I can stay back and drive them with my bow, and then you and Castiel can finish them off. Rufus can hang back here in case any of them make it to the village.”

“Cas is worried they have something stronger then a werewolf on their side,” said Dean. Sam nodded. “Then it's good he's here.” He slid off his stool and headed for the door. “Finish your lunch and then come help us dig.”

“Brunch!” Dean called after him.

~*~

It was a long, tiring day. Sam and Dean got to work on the pit first, cutting a trench in the woods at the bottom of a small ridge, near where Castiel said he had found the clothing the night before. Castiel dug too. Efficiently. In his armour. By the time they made it back to town, Rufus and Jo were all ready well into sharpening a collection of thick, vicious stakes to plant in the bottom. Jo left, wiping her hands to go help her mother with dinner. Dean picked up her knife and sat down on the back porch and got back to work.

Castiel watched.

“I must admit,” he said, observing as Dean shave the stake into shape, “I was told that bringing you your mission was a simple task. I expected to have to convince you to lead a battle against the forces of darkness, but you all ready do.”

Dean sighed. “Alright. I'll bite. But you gotta help.” He handed Castiel a stake, before turning back to the work in his own hands. “What is your mission, exactly?”

“To ensure you go to the Holy City, and take your place at the head of His Armies.”

“So the plan was for you to come with?”

“In a capacity. I would protect you, and I would speak your name to the Holy General so that he knew you when you came. But I was not to … show myself.”

“So why did you?”

“Because you persistently ignored the visions I sent you, and when I tried to speak directly my voice was … too overwhelming for human ears.”

Dean remembered the alien shriek that had destroyed all of Bobby's bottles and rattled the entire forest.

“That was you trying to _speak_?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. 

“So what makes the difference now?”

“I have taken mortal form.”

“Mortals don't take a crossbow to the back and shrug it off like a mosquito bite,” Dean pointed out.

“Physical, then,” Castiel corrected.

“So,” Dean continued. “What are you going to do if I continue to say no?”

“I … had not considered,” Castiel replied honestly. “It is your calling, your destiny. I did not assume you would resist. I was told humans were much more forthcoming.”

“You're not going to force me?”

“It is your destiny, Dean. You are the one forcing yourself to struggle against the current.”

Dean considered Castiel words, tossing the stake onto the pile. “Different question then. You said you're supposed to protect me.”

“Yes.”

“So if I were to stay and fight, you would continue to do that?” Dean looked up. Castiel was still holding the knife and an unpeeled potato in his hands. His expression was dark.

“You would use the orders God has given me toward your own ends,” he said. “Yes, Dean. I will ensure you live until you take your rightful place. But if you take the path you seek to set yourself upon, there are others that will suffer for it.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Dean.

“They are words of wisdom,” Castiel replied.

“Wisdom, eh,” said Dean, turning back to his stakes. “You get a lot of wisdom sitting up in the clouds?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

“We must look pretty pathetic in comparison.”

“I do not know,” said Castiel. “I have not been on Earth very long.”

“What, like, in total you never spent much time on Earth?” He waved his knife in a circular motion. “Or..?”

Castiel did not answer. He averted his eyes to his untouched stick of wood.

“Oh my God,” said Dean. “You literally meant you haven't been here long, as in you came down last week, and this is your first time on Earth? Ever?”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“Christ,” Dean swore. “This is even more fucked up then I thought.”

“Excuse me,” said Castiel. “I know Christ. He is a good man. Please do not use his name in that manner.”

“Way more fucked up,” Dean mumbled. 

They had chicken and fresh bread for dinner, eating hastily so they could make for the woods before sunset. Rufus carried a chicken in a wicker basket. It clucked nervously, somehow aware of the fate of those that were carried from the barnyard. Sam scouted out the best vantage from which to use his longbow, while Cas and Dean fixed the last of the stakes in the bottom of the pit.

Then all they had to do was wait, too nervous to joke or tell stories, no fire to keep them warm. Nigh claimed the forest in a slow, inevitable crawl, and the moon rose into the sky.

“Not long now,” said Rufus.

“I don't think I am going to like the answer,” said Castiel, “but what is the purpose of the chicken?”

“Bait,” said Dean.

And suddenly, in the not to far distant, howling. Sam scrambled to his feet without a word, taking off for his vantage point. Dean grabbed the doomed chicken in its basket and made for the top of the hill. He clamped the wicker lid down tight and rattled the basket, causing the bird to squawk loudly in protest. Dean stood at the top of the hill while it struggled. Finally the chicken settled down and for a minute there was silence over the forest. Then they heard howling again, this time much closer. Castiel joined him at the top of the hill, scanning the forest for things that Dean could not see, listening to the howl of the wolf pack.  
“Five individuals,” he said. Less then a mile north.”

“Are we upwind?”

“We are.”

“Hold the bird,” said Dean. Castiel took the basket, while Dean fished a flask from his pack. He uncorked it and Castiel could smell the blood Jo had collected from the animal they ate at dinner. Dean tossed it to the wind, spreading chicken's blood all across the hilltop. The smell set off the bird in the basket, and it began to squawk again in earnest. 

The wolves sounded again, closer still.

“And down we go,” said Dean. The raced to the bottom of the hill, the as yet unseen phantasm of the wolves on their heels. Dean skidded around the pit, dropping the basket and hauling a rock on top to keep the lid in place, almost letting the chicken go in his haste. The plan was to wait for the pack to come to the top of the ridge and then drive them over into the pit. Sam was at the top of a nearby hill with his bow, ready to egg the wolves into a jump that would normally be rather harmless, if it weren't for the trap they had set below, counting on the darkness and the scent of blood to lead them astray. As long as Dean and Rufus kept away from the top of the ridge, whatever Sam hit or failed to hit in the dark did not matter. If it didn't work, Castiel had plans to follow them back to the den he could not find, and burn it as they slept. He would have done so last night, if he could have found the darned thing. It had him worried.

As the sound of the wolves grew dangerously close, Dean swung himself up into the branches of a nearby tree where Rufus was already hiding. Castiel, hindered by his armour but confident in his strength, stayed behind.

_Something wasn't right, something wasn't right..._

Dean clambered higher, trying to get a view. On top of the ridge a branch snapped and a dog growled.

“I can't see shit,” Dean hissed irritably.

Castiel realized his mistake.

“They're not werewolves!” he cried.

“What?” said Dean, just as the first of the creatures crested the top of the hill. Castiel could see it, but Dean couldn't.

“Hellhounds!” Castiel announced, drawing his impossible sword.

“Sam, fire!” Dean cried. An arrow whizzed out of the darkness, and then another. But these were possessed creatures, invisible and unafraid of human weapons. The hound at the top of the ridge leaped, easily clearing the pit below, and made a bee line for Castiel. Castiel flipped his sword low, ready for the up swing, and charged.

Dean balked, confused for a second and afraid as he watched Castiel charge the air, and then was even more scared when he appeared to hit something. There were things there, Dean realized, kicking up leaves and howling. Things he couldn't see but Castiel could. Castiel flicked his sword, parried, then lunged with one hand on the pommel, driving his sword into the hellhound. Dean knew this because it screamed, and Castiel and the ground were coated with black blood. He kicked the corpse then faced the ridge, six silver wings appearing out of nowhere, flared wide in a show of aggression. There were yips and growls coming from the top of the ridge, but Dean couldn't tell if they were scared or circling for the attacked. Jesus, he needed to help Castiel, he couldn't leave him alone down there. But he would be useless if he couldn't see what he was fighting.

Then, to make it worse, he heard Sam cry out.

Well, that was it then. Dean dropped from the tree.

“Jesus Christ boy!” Rufus cried, obviously terrified. Castiel whipped around to see what was going on, but Dean had hit the ground running, making for Sam's hill. And the second he turned his focus away, the hounds moved in.

Dean was not paying attention. He had one thing on his mind and one thing only, and that was making it to Sam. He charged almost blindly through the undergrowth, using his memory and the slope of the ground beneath his feat to lead the way. Finally the ground rose beneath his feet, and Dean was scrambling, hauling himself up on small trees, feeling for solid roots and rocks, slipping on the leaves. He crested the hill and only had a second to assess the situation, for Sam to cry out again cause there was a demon, another goddamn fucking demon, holding him up by the throat.

Dean had a silver knife, his voice, and his body. Without thinking he used the third. He barreled into the demon, catching it blessedly off guard, and the three of them went tumbling to the ground. Sam gasped for breath, the demon grunted, and Dean drove his knife into its side, for whatever good it would do. Fuck all is what Dean expected, and he was right. The demon pushed him off irritably, and with enough force to send Dean sprawling into a tree. The man it possessed was young, dark haired, had an arrow sticking out of his knee, and probably dead now that Dean had made such a hole in her side.

“You meddling _idiots_ ,” the demon sighed. “I knew there were hunters in this town. So fake a werewolf attack, I thought. Draw them in. And look! The would be trappers have become the trapped. I didn't think anyone was literally this foolhardy.”

Dean tried to struggled to his feet, but the demon flicked its hand and forced him back to the ground.

“I wonder if I should leave you two alive,” it said. Cut off your hands and feet and leave you just where you can hear the screaming from the town.” It pulled Dean's knife from its side. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

And then, out of nowhere, like a miracle, was Castiel. There was fury in his eyes again, and hellhound blood in every conceivable crevice of his armour. A silver, blood soaked vision.

“If you think a few dogs are enough against the power of the Lord,” he said, “think again before I kill you.”

It didn't take long. Castiel didn't even bother to move. Just, one second he was standing at the crest of the hill, and the next he was in front of the demon, and his sword was through its throat.

“We are leaving,” he declared, before the body hit the ground. Dean blinked, and he was laying on the kitchen floor in the Roadhouse, Sam nearby. Ellen yelped and dropped her knife, and Rufus was there too, supported by a very angry angel.

“Dean, you have a concussion,” growled the very angry angel. He let Rufus go, allowing him to slump on the counter, and grabbed Dean's head instead, It was rough compared to the other healing they had seen him do, but once he let go Dean's head did feel more clear.

“Oh my,” Ellen breathed.

“What in the name of God were you thinking,” Castiel growled. “You could have gotten yourself killed!”

“Fuck you,” Dean spat, hauling himself to his feet. “You knew it wasn't werewolves, you knew it was something demonic and you didn't tell us until the last second!”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“You fucked up,” said Dean. “You fucked up and Sam almost got killed!”

“I told you something strong was defending the den -”

“Yeah, and I thought it was a fucking warlock or something, you said nothing about demons!”

“You would blame me for your ignorance?”

“Yes!” said Dean. By now, the two of them were standing practically nose to nose, each trying to stare the other down. Dean was taller, but Castiel was still covered in blood and his wings were puffed up and still threatening. Dimly, they were both aware of Sam trying to explain the situation to Ellen. Rufus had wandered off to take a bath.

“Alright,” said Ellen, after their argument had petered into silent glaring. “I think – I think we should all be just glad Castiel was there and everyone is okay. You should be thankful to him for that, Dean.”

Dean huffed through his nose, but he still growled out a thank you.

“Good,” Ellen continued. “Now, Castiel, I would appreciate it if you didn't track blood all over my kitchen.”

Castiel raised his left hand, snapped his fingers, and the blood was gone. They still had not broken eye contact.

“Thank you,” said Ellen. “Now, it's not too late. Dean, why don't you help me out here and work off some steam.. Castiel, you don't have to hide upstairs and pretend to sleep like last night. You can come and go as long as you don't wake anyone.”

“I appreciate it,” said Castiel. “I will.”

And he vanished. Ellen handed Dean a rag, and pointed to the wash bucket, filled with cups and pots and pans. The water was still warm. Dean got to work.

~*~

Castiel reappeared a few hours later, just as Dean and Jo finished sweeping in the common room and tucking away the chairs for the night. Jo jumped when she saw him.

“I didn't hear you come in!”

“I did not use the door,” said Castiel. 

“You – what?” said Jo. Dean sighed.

“Go ask you mum. Then go to bed. I'll finish up here.”

“You sure?”

“As the sunrise,” Dean replied. “Go on.”

Jo padded out of the common room, looking back once, unsure, her lip between her teeth. Neither man looked at her, but they filled the room with their chilly glares. Jo retreated.

“So I have been thinking,” said Castiel. “And I have a few questions.”

Dean raised his chin and puffed himself out a little. “Look, if you're going to interrogate me just to insult me again -”

“That depends entirely on how you respond,” Castiel interrupted coolly. “I am merely trying to gain a better understanding of your actions.”

“Fine,” said Dean. “But I gotta finish up here.” He pulled a rag from his pocket. “We'll talk while I clean.” He turned his attention from Castiel to the tabletop next to him. Truth be told, Jo had most likely already scrubbed them, but he wasn't just going to stand there and endure Castiel's glare. 

“As you wish,” said Castiel. “Tell me a little bit about you and Sam.”

Dean shrugged. “There's not much to tell.”

“Indulge me then,” Castiel insisted. “I have … a literal host of brothers and sisters, but I have not had a relationship with many of them that compares to the bond that you and Sam share.”

“We're brothers,” said Dean “I don't know how else to put it. I've got Sam and Sam's got me. You're telling me that's not how things work were you come from?”

Castiel tilted his head, parsing out his answer.

“Technically yes. If you word it that way. But you put our mission against the werewolves – the hellhounds - in jeopardy for his safety. An angel would not do that. They have a duty to God above all else.”

Dean sniffed, avoiding looking Castiel in the eye.

“My mission is to protect Sam,” said Dean. “That comes before everything else.”

“Did you give yourself this mission?”

Dean stiffened. “Look,” he said. “If you're going to suggest to me that Sammy is another excuse, he's not, okay, he's my brother -”

“I understand,” Castiel interrupted.

“Good. And anyway, my Dad gave it to me.”

“After he died?”

“After our Mom died, okay? When I was four. I look after Sammy. That's what I've done, my whole life.” Dean scrubbed at the table, even though it didn't really need it. His back was turned fully to Castiel, his actions, the harsh snap of his arm with the rag, spoke the words for him. _And I'm not about to change that mission for you. This conversation is over._

~*~

They stayed for a few more days, kept Ellen and Jo company, did some heavy lifting around the Roadhouse, gave Rufus a break. Dean and Castiel mostly avoided each other, to Ellen's benefit, it seemed, as they both filled their hours with work. The roof had never been so well mended and the stables had never been so clean as when Castiel and Dean were at odds with one another. They didn't speak, other than to discuss chores, or for Castiel to pipe in on whatever Dean was talking about and suggest his problems would be solved by going to the Holy City. He knew Dean wouldn't do it; he was saying it just to make Dean angry, to keep him on edge, remind him that there were other things he should be doing. Often Dean would reply “Make me,” because he knew that Castiel was loath to use force, and that he was a man who stuck to his guns, but he was pissed, and willing to see just how far those guns would go. No matter what was said afterwards, it always ended with the two of them in a huff. And yet, on the day before they were to depart, Castiel approached Sam. He knocked softly on the kitchen entrance to get his attention. Sam was carefully fletching arrows with dark gray feathers, waiting until they were safely in place before shearing them into shape.

“Cas,” he said, mildly surprised. “What can I do for you?”

“I was speaking – I _spoke_ to Dean a few nights ago,” Castiel replied slowly. “After the incident with the hellhouds. The conversation came around to the topic of your mother, and Dean became … suddenly withdrawn. I didn't want to press for fear of overstepping my bounds. I was hoping you could … illuminate the matter.”

Sam sighed, stretching his hands over his head and his back over the chair before leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Mom died when I was young. When I was still a baby, actually. She was killed by a demon not long after....” he waved his hand at the ceiling, indicating the lights in the sky outside. Castiel nodded in understanding. “It was bad, back then. People were still adjusting to the idea that fairy tales were suddenly real and that they didn't all end happily ever after. Mom was Dad's rock, I think. Kept him stable. He couldn't cope without her. He had one thought and one thought only, and that was killing the demon that killed her. But he had no idea where to start, so that turned into killing everything. Into learning how to kill everything. He didn't have time for kids. He barely had time to put food on the table. Sometimes he didn't.” Sam offered Castiel a pinched smile. “He left it to dean to look after me. When Dad needed to make money, he would sell furs. So we lived out in the woods. No other kids around, really. We never saw kids our own age unless Dad took us on a hunt or wild goose chase or whatever you call it. But like, fuck, we had to kill things too. But we were in it together, you know? Me and Dean and Dad. We didn't have anyone else. 'Cept maybe Bobby later on.”

Castiel chewed at the skin on his lip. They were getting dry, he realized. He should really take better care of his physical body. But that wasn't the point.

“From Dean's reaction,” said Castiel, “I gathered the subject was a .. source of guilt, for him. Does he somehow blame himself for your mother's demise?”

Sam leaned back in his chair, regarding Castiel thoughtfully. Castiel shifted his weight nervously.

“Were you talking about Mom?” he asked. “Or were you talking about Dad?”

“Both,” Castiel answered honestly.

“Dean doesn't get worked up about Mom as much as he did as a kid,” Sam explained. “He finally gets that its all in the past. But Dad only died a couple of years ago.” Sam folded his arms over his chest and sighed resentfully through his nose. “I know this is going to come up sooner or later, and Dean will just clam up so I'll give it to you in as few words as I can. Sometimes trapping isn't enough to get by. They got in more than a few fights about it. And there was – is, a war going on. So Dean took the king's shilling, hoping to send some money back our way. And then Dad died on a hunt.”

“I'm sorry,” said Castiel. “I fail to see the -” he cut himself off, the image of a little girl with black eyes and a knife in her back swimming to the front of his mind. “Ah,” he said, finally. “Dean blames himself for not being there.”

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Don't let him fucking talk you into thinking that too, okay? The king might be a bastard, but our family aren't farmers. There were only so many things he could have done to make a decent living. Dean was just trying to arrange things so we could all get by, with the only skills Dad gave him.”

Castiel nodded. He thought he followed. Dean was noble, but he had a troubled heart. It made Castiel … sad to think about. Dean was a man who should be seen in his true glory. The one that God gave him, Castiel reminded himself hastily.

“Thank you,” he said. “I do believe I better understand some of Dean's misgivings. Would you like some help with the arrows?”

“Please,” Sam replied, indicating the table. Castiel waved his hand idly, and all the arrows were impeccably fletched and stacked neatly on the table. Sam gawked at them in wonder.

“Thank you, again,” said Castiel, and then made his leave.

That night, they decided while they had the opportunity and while they were still in Ellen's good graces, to get drunk. Castiel it turned out, was a mean drinker. He originally agreed on one beer, curious, he said, as to what the common man drank. One beer turned into two, or three, which turned into liquor, which turned into Dean getting drunker and drunker while the glasses lined up in front of a rather sober and smug looking Castiel.

“As I am to understand,” said Castiel, “I have won this contest, yes?”

“Oh,” said Dean, drunk and sarcastic, “I didn't know this was a contest. What are we … contesting?”

“My superior tactical abilities.” Castiel grinned stupidly, proud of his lame joke.

_Holy shit_ , thought Dean. _He is drunk. A little. He just doesn't know it._

Dean grinned. “Oh yeah?” he said, sliding a little bit closer. Why don't you tell me about your superior tactical abilities?”

“Tch,” said Castiel. “I have millennia of experience on you, Dean Winchester. I have fought the darkness before you even factored into the Lord's plan.”

“No no no,” said Dean. “I mean, _tactical abilities_.”

Castiel leaned in conspiratorially. “Would you like me to share my secrets, Dean?”

“Are you offering?”

Castiel leaned in even closer and whispered, “You are brash and insolent, Dean Winchester.”

“C'mon,” said Dean. “You like it.” He hiccoughed. “Or maybe you don't, eh? Maybe you prefer giving commands.”

Castiel opened his mouth as if to speak, and then realization appeared to have struck him.

“What is this conversation about?” he asked.

Dean nearly fell off his chair with laughter. Castiel frowned.

“That was not a joke.”

“No,” Dean laughed. “You're kidding me, right? You're making fun.” He wiped his eyes and saw Castiel's very serious expression. “Oh my God you're not kidding. You have no idea. You just said you were how many years old and you can't pick up on a dirty joke?”

“Dirty,” said Castiel. “You mean, sexual?”

“What the hell are you, a virgin – oh my God you are.”

“You know,” said Castiel, “the Lord is my God as well.”

“I literally do not care,” said Dean. “You are, what was it, millennia, that's thousands of years, right. And you've never been laid.”

The stiffness, so blessedly wiped away by the alcohol, returned to Castiel's shoulders. Shit, Dean thought he was doing better, thought he was getting through. He didn't look angry, though. He just looked away.

“That is not how it is done,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

“What, just with humans or with other angels, or-”

“With anyone,” Castiel snapped. Dean was a little shocked. He didn't know what to say, didn't think his jabs would provoke such an … uncomfortable response. Castiel glanced back when dean continued to be silent, and caught the stunned expression on his face.

“I apologize,” he said, slipping off the bar stool. “I believe … perhaps it is time you retired for the night.”

Sam, for his part, stayed up late doing something completely different. He waited until every one else had drifted off before pulling up a seat by the fire and retrieving Dean's strange manual from Holt. Even though it had started off with some coherence, Charles' writing easily devolved into a day by day, case by case account of the mad life of Sam and Dean Winchester. In fact, it looked like Shurley had been writing it as it happened, for years and years. Sam had skimmed it a couple times now. He'd only read a few parts in depth, feeling at once a narcissist and a voyeur. He hadn't read any of the parts about their Dad, or about Dean's experiences while he had been away. He wanted Dean to talk about that himself. Someday. There was plenty of blank space after it ended, the last story of a mysterious light saving Dean from the monsters at Holt. Then there was a note, addressed to Sam. It read,

_Dear Sam,_  
I know Dean isn't going to read this. I know he's going to give it to you, and that you are. Trust your brother in the days that are to come. And trust Castiel. He cares for Dean a lot more than he is letting on.  
Thanks for reading, it means a lot.  
Chuck Shurley

The trip home from Holdredge was much the same the journey there, all be it a bit quieter. They carried letters, home baked goods, and a stunning wheel of cheese for Bobby from the Roadhouse, along with a promise to return as soon as possible, and to bring Bobby with them next time. 

That night on the road, Dean woke in the wee hours of the morning in need of a piss. He slouched into the trees, bleary eyed, to do his business. He didn't here the music until he was done. Dean followed it, cautiously, back to the grassy verge where Castiel was sitting with Baby, combing her mane with his fingers and singing a wordless song. His wings were out again, hanging loose and relaxed. Baby seemed perfectly at ease, even going as far as to rest her head in his lap. It was such a peaceful gesture, but it spoke volumes to Dean, much more so than any show of force. And Castiel was smiling sort of aimlessly as he sang. It was a really good look on him. The feathers of his wings shimmered silver where they caught the moonlight.

“She's a beautiful creature,” said Castiel, acknowledging Dean's presence without turning to look at him. “Strong, too. And free spirited. But she believes in you, Dean. And your brother. I never expected to see such loyalty in an animal. I didn't think they were capable. But she wouldn't stand beside any other man in the world.”

Baby huffed.

“Except for Bobby.”

Dean decided right then and there that this whole angel thing wasn't going to be so bad after all.


	5. Chapter Four: The Watchers

They hit the road the next morning with no particular haste. Castiel found wild blueberries to go with breakfast and they ate them while they walked. Dean waggled his purple stained tongue at him, and Castiel laughed. But the angel's mood didn't stay light for long. As the three hunters chatted, Castiel drew further and further into his own thoughts. Eventually Dean fell back to walk beside him, trying to goad him out of his somber reverie.

“Would you like to trade stories, Dean?” Castiel asked. His voice was low enough that only he and Dean could hear. “I enjoyed trading tales and I would like to do so again. I find I have one that I think you should hear.”

Dean glanced at the other two men ahead of them on the road.

“I would like for you to hear this one before I share it with the others. It is not a story I have shared before and I am … unsure.”

“Alright,” said Dean. “Shoot.”

Castiel drew a deep breath. “It concerns the angel Anael,” he began. “She was a beautiful angel, a guardian with hair of flame. God made her loyal, and curious, and set her to watch over mankind, to guide their actions gently towards the path of light, and spread word of His love.”

Dean listened closely. An angel. So, was this a story angels told, or something that happened to an angel Cas knew?

“And Anael did so,” Castiel continued. “She served the Lord faithfully, through The Fall, and for thousands of years. Her curiosity ensured she never tired of watching over humankind, and her grace assured she never lead a human astray. She loved them as God loved them, and through Anael, God's love touched the Earth. Unfortunately, though Anael could watch and whisper worlds of guidance, she was an angel. And angels, barring strict and extenuating circumstances, are forbidden from interfering in the affairs of the mortal realm.”

An unsettling cold began to creep up Dean's spine.

“So,” said Castiel, “it was with a grieving heart that Anael realized, not too too long ago, that she was in love with a mortal man.”

Dean's breath caught in his throat.

“His name was Levi. Anael would speak of him to the other angels. His kindness. His selflessness. His faith. His beauty. Thousands of years, she claimed, and there had never been a mortal man like him before. Her sisters and brothers tried to be understanding, of course. They delighted that such a man existed so devoted to God. They showed remorse in that he would live only as long as mortal men do, in that beauty could be fleeting. They said Anael could visit him whenever she wanted when he took his place in heaven. But still, Anael only had eyes for him. She watched no one else, nothing else. Finally, she could bear their separation no longer. So close, and yet so far away. So she reached out to Levi, in his dreams. She told him that he was watched by an angel of the Lord, and that he was loved. And Levi … Levi laughed, and said, 'Well that seems unfair, doesn't it? You know so much about me, and I know nothing about you.' And Anael, delighted, told him. Told him everything some say. Told him too much, some say. Secrets of healing. Of history that was meant to be forgotten. But these did not matter, for she had already revealed herself to him.” Castiel didn't just look sad, he looked downright heartbroken. “She trusted her secret to a brother, and for a while he kept it, as long as Anael continued to watch, and guide and do God's work. But she spent more and more time with Levi, and her brother decided things were getting out of hand.”

_Ooooh shit_ , thought Dean.

“He told Anael she could not continue like this, to move on before it was too late. They argued, and while they argued, while her eyes were turned away, while she could have whispered a warning, Levi fell ill.”

“Did he die?” asked Dean. Castiel shook his head.

“All men die,” he replied. “But it was not Levi's time. He recovered, but Anael would not take that chance again. She took physical form and went to him. Lay … with him. She could no longer bear to simply watch, and this could no longer be kept a secret. Anael interfered with God's plan. They were to lock her up, or cast her into Hell. Rather then face such a fate, Anael destroyed herself. She tore the grace of God from her breast and fell from the sky. No one is quite sure of her fate, though nothing remains of the curious angel with hair of fire.”

“And Levi?”

“When the angels came for Anael they did not take mortal form. He saw them, and he heard them. The sight of them burned out his eyes, and their voices his ears. Touched by the power of the angels, he spend the rest of his days blind and deaf.”

Castiel finished his story, and waiting patiently for Dean's reaction.

“That,” said Dean, “is so much crap. She didn't change anything!” He waved his arms in agitation. “He got better himself!”

Castiel sighed, deep and low. “You know better than that, Dean.”

Dean lowered his arms. “Yeah. I get it. Disaster waits for the angel who gets decides to get involved with the affairs of us petty humans, and the only reason they haven't smitten us is because I'm the chosen one or something like that.”

“No,” said Castiel. “Disaster waits for the angel who puts his love of man before his love of God. And disaster waits for the man who accepts that love.”

~*~

They arrived at Bobby's late in the day, though considerably more well rested then at the end of their last journey. They made idle plans; dean would start work on a new bow, while Sam and Rufus would head into Abbottsford the next day to scrounge for gossip on a new hunt. Holdrege had been kind of a bust in that regard. But all four of the hunters were beginning to seriously worry about the state of affairs. Sam argued, and Bobby agreed, that they needed to do some snooping. To find out why demons with hellhounds would launch such a large attack on Holdrege, if it was going to become the next Holt. Bobby asked Castiel why they hadn't taken the demon alive, although the best answer he was going to get was “blind rage”. And when asked if he knew why that town in particular, Castiel just shrugged. He was told where and when, not why. And, by the way, there where was currently supposed to be in the Captiol, which could offer them a lot of resources to help them with this investigation.

“Right,” said Bobby. “Well, while you idjits are thinking about it, I'm going to hit the history books. Feathers is going to hang tight in case I need a translator.”

“Hang tight to what?” asked Castiel. 

Dean sighed. The next day, bright and early, he headed out into the woods, axe in hand. It had been a while since he made the bow he lost on the way to Abbottsford, but the yew tree from which he had cut the wood was around here somewhere. It wasn't far, but Dean needed an excuse to meander, an excuse to think. When he found the tree, he took his time selecting a branch, combing the underbrush for a long enough branch, otherwise he would have to cut one and wait for the wood to dry out. Thankfully he found a solid five foot length without too many knots. When he got back to Bobby's though, he stashed it with the ax, and instead of getting to work he went to find Castiel. The angel was sitting in the kitchen with a stack of books, diligently translating. Dean was glad Bobby was nowhere to be seen.

“Cas,” Dean said, and Castiel looked up from his work. “If I wanted you to take me to the capitol, could you?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “Why do you ask? Are you ready to go?”

“Kinda,” replied Dean. “Kinda. But can I make a couple of requests first?”

“That would depend on what they are.”

“We're going to go, just me and you. Don't tell Sam. Or Bobby. You take me where I ask, and you do what I say. You have to trust me on this.”

Castiel nodded. “Our Father has faith in you.”

“I'm not asking about God,” said Dean. “I'm asking about you.”

“I trust you Dean.”

“Great,” Dean replied. “Then ditch the armour, and meet me out back in ten.”

Castiel was frowning when Dean left the room to pack his bag, but non the less he met Dean out back in a clean linen shirt and dark pants. It was much finer than anyone of Dean's status would wear, but it would have to do. He gave Castiel Sam's traveling cloak, even thought it was too big. At least it helped disguise his glaring cleanliness. Dean had packed knives, salt, flint, a change of clothes and a bit of food. He would be relying on Castiel for protection against anything major.

“Alright,” said Dean, holding out a hand. “Put us inside the city, away from the church. Somewhere we won't be noticed.”

Castiel nodded. He took Dean's hand and the world lurched. It didn't feel like flying, which surprised Dean. He did get the sense, though, that the world was moving beneath them very quickly. It was still a sickening sensation. Dean closed his eyes. When he opened them, he could already hear the sounds of people, wagon wheels on cobbles, smell the stink of city air. Castiel had landed them in an alley between two stone buildings a few blocks from the market. Dean had never been to the capitol before. He didn't like cities, even small ones. Too much chaos, too many prying eyes. He was aware that there were those that hunted in the cities, but they had to remain so far underground they may as well have been ghosts themselves. In short, he had no idea how to navigate this place, in manner and location both.

“May I ask why we are here?” asked Castiel.

“Well,” said Dean, “You've never been here before. We were busy in Holdrege, and I thought maybe you would want to get a better idea of how things worked.”

Castiel looked around him as they walked.

“No differently than on the rest of the mortal plane, I would assume.”

Dean shrugged. “When it comes down to the basics, not really. I mean, people still eat, piss, die the same as anywhere else. But the details change.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” said Castiel. He was unsure of Dean's motives.

“Well,” said Dean as they began to walk, “I reckoned you haven't seen much of the world, you know. The woods around Bobby's cabin aren't very interesting.” 

“On the contrary,” Castiel replied, “they are very beautiful. The complex interwoven lives of the creatures and plants creates a delicate and fascinating ecosystem.”

“Okay,” said Dean. “But what about human ecosystems?”

Castiel looked around him, at the stone buildings and the dirt streets.

“They are .. vastly different, aren't they.”

Dean nodded. “Come on. Let's walk. Take a look around. But one rule, okay?”

“What would that be?”

“Pretend you're a human. No healing, no wings, nothing gives away that you are an angel. Unless our lives are in danger. Got it?”

Castiel nodded.

And so they walked. It was busier than usual, Dean assumed, being a market day. Farmers sold summer crops; carrots and beans and peppers. Shops had their doors open to the air. From somewhere a few streets off the sound of a blacksmith's hammer laid a metronome over the babble of city life. Dean was steering them toward the Cathedral, standing head and shoulders over the other buildings in the city, but he let Castiel set the pace. The angel was unsure, at first, content just to stand back and watch. He clasped his hands behind his back, leaning over to examine a tomato or back to admire tinsmith's wares. He began asking questions; why are tomatoes popular? How do you use an oil lamp? Castiel asked about little things, details that Dean normally took for granted like the idea of making change, and horseshoes. Dean bought candied nuts from a stall, and insisted that even if he didn't need to eat Castiel at least try a few. Later he asked Dean for change for a beggar, and the old woman thanked them with a fairy tale about the trickster that fooled God, the spirit from a time long forgotten that still walked the Earth to that day. Castiel smiled hugely as she told her tale.

“That's not exactly how it went,” said Castiel, “but she is very close.”

They sat and watched some troupers in a small park, Dean lounging on the grass and Castiel sitting neatly with his legs folded beneath him and his hands on his knees. Dean bought a meat pie for lunch, and after the success with the candied nuts Castiel asked for one too. Dean laughed at the look of delight on his face, even though the juice was dribbling down his chin and threatened to stain his shirt. He reached out to wipe it off, but Castiel pulled back the second Dean's fingers brushed his chin. He licked the juice from his fingers, smiling. They chatted as they ate, watching the crowd and making up stories about passersby. A young women in a faded red dress was suffering the loss of her family's fortune, her father selling off their land piece by piece to pay for her education, in hopes of getting it back. A young man with wild eyes was a beleaguered alchemist's apprentice.

“What about them?” asked Castiel. He pointed to a girl and a boy across the square. They looked like brother and sister. She had a loaf of bread in one arm and gripped her brother's hand tightly, dragging him along at a pace too much for his little legs. She looked nowhere but a head of her, determined to break through the crowd. Dean knew that look from when he was a teenager.

“Stop!” cried a man in the breastplate of the city watch. “Stop, thief!” The girl book it then, but her brother could not keep up and he tumbled to the cobblestones. She halted torn between him and escaping the law. She hesitated too long, and the constable caught up with them. He tried to take the bread from her hands but she wouldn't let go, so he smacked the girl across the jaw, causing her to land on the ground next to her brother. Castiel gasped.

“That child is stealing food, Dean, why-?”

“So they can eat?” Dean suggested. It was bad enough that the constable had hit someone barely a quarter of his size like that, but he insisted on fighting her for it, kicking her while she clawed at his legs. Most of the people in the square walked by, or stopped to watch. Some paid no attention at all.

“Dean,” said Castiel, “Dean we have to do some … thing...” The words died on his tongue, the realization of what he was implying hitting him before he finished speaking. Dean was standing up, striding across the square, but Castiel was rooted. He shifted his vision, looking beyond the normal spectrum into the dimension just beyond and he saw her, the watcher, with dark hair and white wings. She looked sad, but her stance was passive, hands hung loosely by her side. An angel watching a child be beaten.

And then there was Dean. He put himself between the girl and the constable, holding up his hands and trying to calm the man down. He sneered, called her a thief and a good for nothing. Her brother clung to her skirts like she was the only thing in the world and cried. Dean gave the watchman a penny to pay for the bread. He still sneered, but it didn't look like he was ready to pick on someone his own size.

“You should stay away from this neighbourhood for a while,” Dean told the girl, though she didn't want to be helped to her feet. “Best time to get bread is the end of the day, when they throw out the stuff they can't sell.” She nodded, once, too scared to talk. She scooped up her brother and disappeared down an alley.

The watcher watched them go. She finally caught sight of Castiel and raised one perfect dark eyebrow in question. Castiel inclined his head toward Dean.

_The next chosen one_ , he said, speaking to her without sound. She looked Dean over, from toe to head.

_They'll use that compassion against him_ , she replied. _It will be tough to watch, but I suppose it must be done._

Castiel looked in the direction the children had gone, and wondered if it really had to.

~*~

Eventually, Dean led Castiel into tourist nest of souvenir shops and restaurants that made up the Cathedral district. Castiel followed Dean, occasionally pausing to look at a stall of trinkets and cock his head in curiosity. The warren lead out onto a large stone square, bisected by the gates of the Cathedral. They were open today, it being a weekday, for pilgrims who sought penance on the steps. Dean let Castiel watch as they climbed, one by one, stopping on each step to prostrate themselves and make a prayer.

“What do you think?” Dean asked.

“I do not know,” Castiel replied. “They say to walk in the footsteps of the Prophets, of those before you, but I always assumed it was metaphorical.”

“Do as they do, not what they do.”

“Precisely.”

“Come on,” said Dean. “I know a back door.”

Castiel already knew how, so he did not ask. Dean lead him through an unguarded side door, up a cramped flight of stairs into a carpeted hallway. One side was lined with wooden doors, the other looked out onto the nave. Afternoon sun shone through the stained glass window over the pulpit, breaking the lines of the pews into patterns of red, blue, and gold. Dean looked around, then spotted two men at the end of the hallway; a tall, imposing, dark skinned fellow, and a short, round balding man in the robes of an accountant. He tapped Castiel's shoulder to get his attention.

“What is this?” asked Castiel.

“That guy,” said Dean, pointing. “Is the guy you want me to replace. You don't recognize him?”

Castiel shook his head.

“That's interesting,” said Dean, “because they say the General is chosen by God.”

“He may very well be,” said Castiel. “I was not charged with his appointment, but I do not know every detail of what goes on in Heaven.”

“I heard the the previous general owed him a favour,” said Dean.

“Owed God?”

“No, him,” said Dean, jerking his thumb at the current leader of the Brotherhood. “Raphael. He's not the one we want to talk to, anyway.”

They stood, patiently, while the men finished talking. The general swept away without even a glance in their direction. The round guy wandered up to them, though he didn't seem particularly pleased to do so. Dean honoured him with a sweeping bow. Castiel, ever the quick learner, followed suit.

“Lord Petitioner Zachariah,” said Dean, speaking to the man's shoes.

“Yes, yes,” said the Lord Petitioner, sounding irritated. “What would you like?”

“I come on behalf of the people from the lands of Easthead and Abbotsford,” said Dean. “Doubtless news of Holt has reached the Holy City.”

The lord sniffed. “Terrible business.”

“I come asking for protection, my lord,” Dean continued. “We have no way of looking out for ourselves, and there are demons in the wilds.”

The Lord Petitioner made a small, dismissive noise. He moved past Castiel and Dean to unlock the door to his office.

“The Baron of Abbottsford is not a very pious man,” he said.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said Dean, “I am not sure to what you are referring.” In fact he knew damn well to what the Lord Petitioner was referring, he just wanted him to say it out loud. He was also watching Castiel out of the corner of his eye. The angel was frowning deeply. “We are poor, but we are pious. I have no doubt the Baron is the same.”

“Well,” said the Lord Petitioner, “Most of the Brotherhood is busy on the northern border, on behalf of the King. He has already fully financed the campaign. I suppose we could spare a few men, but since the Baron does not make a terribly impressive showing, who would back them?”

“We will find a way, my Lord, but please. Several families have already fallen victim -”

“Let me know when you've found a way,” the Petitioner interrupted, “and I'll tell you what we can do.”

He was about to shut the door on them when Castiel stood. Here it comes, thought Dean.

“Excuse me,” said Castiel, “But if I am understanding your conversation correctly, then I am understanding that you wish this man to pay for your services?”

“The Baron of Abbottsford does not represent his people well to the Brotherhood,” Zachariah replied. “But I'm sure the people have the means.”

The light from the windows darkened, and Dean could have sworn he heard thunder.

“This institution,” Castiel growled, “this Church was given a mission by God Himself, to protect the people of the land.” Dean didn't have to look at the angel to know that his eyes were growing dark. “And you would deny them that protection because they do not wave gold under your nose?”

The Lord Petitioner shrugged, “Fighting demons is expensive business, my friend.” Then he shut the door in Castiel's face. Castiel stood for a moment. He raised a fist, maybe to knock on the door, maybe to smite it, but Dean put a steadying hand on his arm.

“Remember,” he said, “we're keeping it low.” He could have sworn he heard thunder in the distance.

“We are leaving,” Castiel declared. The ground disappeared from beneath their feet. Dean clutched Cas' arm for support, and thankfully it wasn't long before they landed near Bobby's cabin. Dean stumbled a little, but Castiel didn't seem to care. He started for the cabin but didn't make it very far. Dean watched him stop and pace back and forth for a moment, caught between action and pure anger.

“You did this on purpose,” he said to Dean. “You knew, didn't you. You knew the Baron had garnered the ire of the Church, that they would want recompense before – I could not image that they would require penance _monetarily_ -”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted. Castiel's jaw snapped shut.

“Cas,” Dean continued, “do you know why the Church is angry at the Baron?”

“I can only speculate,” Castiel replied. “Though I do not believe it would go against my orders to return to Heaven and find out -”

“It's because Abbotsford is poor,” Dean explained. “The Baron isn't a bad guy. And he may be a Baron, but it's not like he's rolling in it. His 'contributions' to the Church are less than they would like them to be. So they shit on him, and us.”

Castiel's fists were clenched at his sides.

“I don't want anything to do with their money grubbing political bullshit,” said Dean. “And don't get me started on what I've heard about that warmonger Raphael.”

Castiel perked up at the sound of the name.

“Raphael,” he said to himself. Then his eyes widened, the dawning of a realization. “I do know him, Dean! I must go. I must speak to my superior. I will explain when I return.” he paused. “Do not do anything rash while I am gone.”

Dean didn't even have time to ask him when he would be back.

~*~

After a week, Dean began to worry. And then he began worry because he worried. He worried because he knew it was unlike Castiel to abandon his mission for so long. He did say he was returning to heaven, which meant he should be safe. But he had been persistence incarnate. Yet for three days he had not even popped into Dean's dreams to remind him that the world was going to end if he didn't fulfil his destiny. Maybe Heaven was just that busy a place, Dean had no idea, but still he knew when Cas had a mission he didn't just abandon that mission outright. Then Dean began to worry because he realized he figured he knew Cas that well even though he hadn't known him for too long. Something in his gut twitched when he woke up to silent air next to his bed, when he saw tomatoes at the market. He should be relieved to have the angel off his shoulder, but his absence, as it turned out, was as loud as his presence had been.

“Guess they called it off?” said Sam, after the three more days had passed. Dean grew more irritable and antsy every day there was no news. He worked on his bow. They went out hunting to text it, and, unsatisfied, Dean scrapped it and started again. He burned steam by running the trap lines and chopping wood. By this point he had probably scared off all the rabbits and turned half the forest into kindling. Baby's coat and mane had been brushed, re-brushed, and even braided at one point before she shook Dean off and trotted away for some peace and quiet.

“How should I know?” Dean snapped. “I'm no fucking angel expert!”

“Why don't we just head out,” Sam suggested. “Go check out the haunted caves. Stop by the Roadhouse again, gather more people. I know you hate sitting still for so long.”

“I can't,” said Dean.

“Why not?”

Dean started to answer, then he realized he didn't have one. Or he didn't want to say it. Because the answer was _What if he comes back and I'm not here?_

After two weeks had passed, Dean gave in. Sitting around wasn't going to anyone any good. They saddled Baby with their bags, said goodbye to Bobby once more, and hit the road north to Holdrege. They weren't gone long when they saw a wagon approaching in this distance. Two men pulled by two horses. Not unusual, in and of itself. One of the men struck Dean as familiar, but he couldn't tell this far away. Hopefully another hunter, who would come with them or stick around and help form a plan of attack. Dean kept an eye on them as they drew closer. One old man. One younger. Dark hair, white shirt. Really nice shirt for someone traveling on a wagon like that. It wasn't until they drew within a few hundred yards that Dean realized who it was.

“Cas,” he breathed. Then he shouted. “Cas!” he called. “Cas what the hell!” Dean broke into a run. Sam, astounded, and Baby, excited, followed suit. The older man driving the wagon pulled up when he saw what was going on, allowing Castiel to hop off and practically land in Dean's arms. It surprised both of them. 

“Jesus motherfucking Christ, Cas,” said Dean. “We were worried sick,” (Sam rolled his eyes). “You look … terrible.”

Castiel did look terrible. He was pale and dirty and it looked like he hadn't shaved since he left. Though with a wash and a trim, it would be a pretty good look on him. Dean was all smiles, but Castiel looked like he was on the verge of tears. Sam thanked the man who had given Castiel a lift. Dean's smile gave way to a more and more troubled frown as they lead Cas back to Bobby's cabin. He sat down heavily at the kitchen table, placing his hands as if bracing himself on the rough wood and licking his lips nervously.

“You going to be all right?” asked Dean.

“May I have some water?” asked Castiel. His voice was rough. “Perhaps … something to eat?”

“Yeah, of course, whatever you want,” said Dean. “You know that. I thought you didn't need to eat, though.”

Castiel nodded. When he spoke, his voice was even worse off. Choked, he said, “I am afraid circumstances have changed.”

Then he burst into tears.

~*~

It took some time for Cas to settle, then for Dean to force some food and water on him. He was a little better after that, and seemed mildly surprised at the fact. Bobby offered him something strong and unidentifiable from an earthenware jug, which Castiel declined. It took a while for the story to come out It seemed like there was some other stuff that needed to come out first. He continually opened his mouth as if to speak, then noticed the wide expectant faces of his audience and broke down again.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a while. “I am … I find this shameful to speak of.”

“Maybe just give us the basics?” Sam suggested. “Tell us where you went.”

“I returned to the Holy City.”

“Returned?” said Sam, looking at Dean who shrugged all too guiltily. “And why?”

“I returned to … confront Raphael,” Castiel admitted. “The general. I was going to … give him a show of force. Convince him to denounce the corruption Dean showed me and follow him instead.”

Sam levelled Dean with his best, _You aren't getting out of explaining this later_ , look. Dean would usually have replied with a petulant brotherly sneer, but instead he looked angry and made a gesture to say _Let the man finish_. 

“It was not the Raphael I expected,” Castiel continued. “He is not a man named for the Archangel, he is the Archangel.”

“God's balls,” Bobby breathed. Fury kindled in Dean's eyes, but he restrained himself.

“I confronted him anyway. Demand he denounce the corruption of the Brotherhood and follow God's chosen. He ...”

_He laughed after he had defeated Castiel, flashing bright white human teeth._

_“You know nothing, brother,” he said. “You are as brainwashed and ignorant as the humans. No, even worse, you let the humans brainwash you. You know what Dean's fate is, and you still let him lead you on. You WANT him to lead you on. You care more about the human's mission at this point then your own. This is they way of things, little brother, and you have overstepped your bounds. You know too much. I really am sorry.”_

“He … cast me out of the host,” said Casitel. “Stripped me of my powers.”

“Made you human,” said Sam. Castiel nodded.

“I believe he intended to leave me for dead. That I wouldn't know how to handle ... I had to beg for food. I sold my armour to get here.”

Both Sam and Dean winced inwardly. A set of plate like that should have fetched him a lot more money. It was very likely Cas had been swindled out of it.

“You're here,” said Dean, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “You're alive. That's what matters.” His shoulder was solid and warm. Cas smiled up at Dean, but it was forced and it didn't last long.

“I do not feel … okay,” he said.

“Maybe a nap?” Sam suggested. Castiel nodded, standing up as he did so. He flopped down in front of the fire place, closing his eyes. By silent agreement the other three gave him his space. Bobby disappeared to his books, Sam to check the trap lines, and Dean settled on the porch with Baby's saddle, to fix the buckle and some loose stitching. He worked methodically, unsure whether to be worried or glad that Castiel was back with them. After maybe twenty minutes or so, the man in question emerged from the house. He didn't do much, just plonked himself down next to Dean and sighed.

“I could not achieve rest,” he said by way of explanation. Dean nodded in understanding.

“Just feeling too awake?”

“No,” Cas replied. “I feel tired. And … I have been very lonely these past few weeks. Scared. When I took physical form I was somewhat cut off from the host, but they were still there. I could still feel their presence, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I returned. Now I have none of that.”

“Hey, Cas,” said Dean. “Look at me.”

Castiel did. Even though he was human his eyes were still crazy blue.

“You have us,” said Dean. “You did this for us. So we're here to back you up. You did this for me. So you have me too.”

Castiel closed his crazy blue eyes. He leaned into Dean, and for a moment Dean was afraid he as going to do something … forward. Instead he just lay his head on Dean's shoulder and sighed deeply. The instinctual part of Dean wanted to say hey, easy there, what if Sam sees? But the rational part of him decided that it was harmless, and Cas had been through a lot. The least Dean could give him was a shoulder to cry on. So he let him stay, turning back to the needle in his hand. It wasn't long before Castiel's breathing evened and slowed, and he was asleep.

End Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far! Part two is already in the works, and will get the proper treatment once I stop getting buttfucked by university.


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